


Gendry Stark, Lord of Winterfell

by Lady3jane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Intrigue, Sexual Content, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 97,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady3jane/pseuds/Lady3jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know it's never going to happen; Gendry is never going to be a Stark or Lord of Winterfell. I doubt he'll even get Arya in GRRM's world, but that doesn't stop me wanting it to happen.</p><p>So I wrote it for me. Hopefully you'll enjoy it too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A no-name bastard

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, a word of warning . . .
> 
> This is a future fic and therefore, although has its roots in GRRM’s books, no one but the man himself knows how the characters will develop or what trials they will suffer. All we know is that GRRM is gonna make them suffer – right?
> 
> Being a future fic, I feel I have some licence to write the characters the way I’d like them to be and that’s just what I’ve done. 
> 
> So, if you imagine an adult Arya would still be a tiny girl, then I’d say this fic isn’t for you. If you imagine adult Gendry is going to let Arya walk all over him and hit him with impunity, then this fic isn’t for you either.
> 
> However, if you’d like to see Arya as the beautiful, but deadly and damaged Lady of Winterfell then I think you’ll enjoy this. If you’d like to see Gendry embracing his destiny as Robert Baratheon’s son, then read on . . .

The throne room fell silent. The very air the crowd breathed seemed thick and heavy with anticipation. Everyone waited, everyone watched the Queen on the Iron Throne high above them and everyone listened intently for her proclamation. 

Gendry had spent years fighting through fire and blood and it all led to this one, life-changing moment. He had served the Dragon Queen with resolute, unquestioning loyalty and, at last, his efforts were to be rewarded. House Targaryen once again ruled Westeros and most of the realm was at peace, thanks in no small measure to him and to his men. Now the new Queen would show her gratitude. She had won the Iron Throne and, in order to ensure she held it, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of her Name, was granting lands and titles to those who had served her well; and none of her Commanders had won more victories or fought more bravely than Robert Baratheon’s Flea Bottom bastard. 

Storm’s End and the title of Lord Baratheon would finally, deservedly, be his. No one deserved honour more than he did and, with the stain of his bastardy removed, a title and lands to his name, he would finally be able to pursue the lady who had haunted his dreams for years. Gendry suppressed the thrill of anticipation that thought gave him. He would have plenty of time to savour his success and plan the battle for his lady’s hand and heart once the Queen granted him his due. Victory over the odds of his birth and circumstance was so close he could smell it. When he licked his dry lips, he could taste it.

The Queen slowly unrolled the scroll she had been holding her delicate hand. Daenerys Stormborn’s regal, authoritative voice carried clear and true around the silent hall,

“The Stormlands, as they extend from the Crownlands in the North to Dorne in the South, from the Reach in the West to the Narrow Sea in the East and the great castle at Storm’s End are mine to command. I gift them, as is only right and just, to a Baratheon. In recognition of his fealty to me I will legitimise him and grant him his birthright . . .”

Gendry’s blood pounded in his veins and he let a slow smile of satisfaction curve his lips. Everything; all the sacrifice, all the sweat, violence and death that had brought him here would be justified as soon as he bent the knee and felt the royal sword upon his shoulders. No more would he be forced to endure the sneering insult of bastard, for his Queen would raise him high above them all. He would be the equal to any lord in the land and worthy of any lady. 

The Queen’s eyes lit upon him and she smiled most graciously . . . before she turned her back on him and proclaimed Edric Storm to be Lord Baratheon.

Edric. She had given everything that should have been his to Edric? When the only thing that bastard had done was hide in Lys and wait until it was safe to return to Westeros? And it was Gendry who had made it safe. Gendry who had waded through blood and tears for Westeros, for the Dragon Queen, yet it was Edric, who was too afraid to stay on the same fucking continent, who reaped the rewards.

To compound his shame, when the Queen had smiled at him, Gendry had started forwards towards the Iron Throne in eager anticipation. An iron grip on his bicep, hauled him back into the crowd where he was forced to stand with his men and watch that proud, preening, piece of shit Edric take what was rightfully his. 

Gendry silently cursed his father, he cursed Edric, he cursed the Dragon Queen to the seven hells and back and he cursed his own stupidity most of all. Daenerys had never explicitly promised him the Stormlands, but it had been implied; it had been more than implied. She knew how badly he wanted legitimacy and stronghold of his House. Daenerys had dangled those rewards before him like a lure and he had chased that prize through battle after battle, like the naïve, bastard fool he was. Well, he was still a bastard, but he’d be a fool for her no more. He had won her war for her, but he was finished with her and done with Westeros.

The ceremony to bestow his honours upon Edric seemed interminable. With every passing moment, his shame and his rage at his humiliation increased until he was clenching his fists so hard his nails drew blood and his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth must surely break. 

The moment it was finished and the new Lord Baratheon turned to smugly accept the enthusiastic cheers of the audience, Gendry headed for the doors, only to find his exit barred by a dozen white cloaked guards, with their Captain at their centre. 

“The Queen wants you to stay,” Daario Naharis smirked.

“The Queen can go fuck herself,” Gendry growled as he made to push his way through the guards.

Before he was half way through, Gendry felt cold, hard steel at his throat and Naharis’ moist breath against the back of his neck. The Captain of the Queensguard whispered bitterly, “Now why would she do that when she keeps the one who calls himself Aegon for that very purpose?” 

Gendry turned his head as far as he dared, feeling the sharp point of a blade dig deeper into his neck. His own men had drawn their swords and Gendry signalled to them to stand down. Naharis had been Daenerys’ lover once. Now he was openly hostile to anyone who enjoyed the Queen’s favour; including Aegon and, until that farce of a ceremony, Gendry. He knew Naharis had been waiting for an excuse to kill him and it looked as if the blue haired cunt might have finally found it.

“All right, I’ll stay,” Gendry drawled casually as he held up his empty hands. The pressure against his neck eased slightly.

“That’s right. Do what you’re told like a good little bastard,” Naharis hissed as he turned Gendry slowly back around to face the Iron Throne. 

Gendry had been seething with anger before and Naharis’ bastard comment was enough to shatter the thin veneer of his self control. Gendry had expected legitimacy; thought he had heard the last of that hated name, yet once again some fucker was able to taunt him with it. 

Gendry’s hand clamped around Naharis’ wrist before the Captain of the Guard had a chance to react and before Gendry himself had time to ponder the stupidity of attacking the white cloaks in their lair. 

Given the odds, Naharis never expected Gendry to retaliate. The Captain’s complacency was, quite literally, his downfall. Using his greater size and weight as leverage, Gendry hauled Naharis by the wrist forwards and down, twisting the man’s arm in a vice like grip as he fell. In an instant, Naharis was at Gendry’s feet, gasping in pain as his arm was near wrenched out of its socket. Gendry’s boot on his other shoulder, forced the Captain of the Guard lower still. Then the seven hells broke loose. 

The other white cloaks seemed to have been stunned by the swiftness and the ferocity of Gendry’s attack, but their Captain’s cry of pain jolted them out of their stupor and twelve white cloaks simultaneously launched themselves at the bastard who, somehow, had their Captain pinned to the floor. Gendry’s men were faster and, within moments of Naharis first barring Gendry’s way, a mêlée erupted in the throne room. Women screamed, men bellowed and anyone not directly involved ran for their lives.

With his free hand, Gendry drew his sword and ferociously blocked any strikes from the white cloaks that broke through the defensive circle his men were fighting to maintain around him. More and more white cloaks poured into the hall, surrounding Gendry’s tight knot of black cloaked soldiers, with Darrio Naharis on the ground at its centre.

“Desist! . . . Now!”

From high above them, the Queen’s roared command rang out around the cavernous hall. The white cloaks immediately downed their weapons, and dropped to one knee before the Queen on the Iron Throne. After a nod from him, Gendry’s men did the same, leaving Gendry as the only man standing. Daario Naharis’ tried to struggle to his feet, but Gendry’s boot exerted more pressure on the Captain’s shoulder, keeping him down.

High above them, Daenerys rose to her feet and descended from the Iron Throne, so gracefully as to seem to be gliding. Her lilac eyes remained fixed on them, or more specifically, Gendry.

“Leave us!” the Queen called out sharply as she stepped down from the final, iron rung and strolled towards them.

The white cloaks and all the remaining occupants of the hall hurried to comply, save Gendry’s men who waited once again for his order. He bid them leave with a slight incline of his head. One by one, they reluctantly filed out of the throne room, jostling the white cloaks with murderous intent as they went.

“You’re not hurting my guards are you Gendry?”

The blue haired man writhing in agony at Gendry’s feet was answer enough, so Gendry merely shrugged, being in no mood to play the Queen’s games today.

“Maim the Captain of my Guard and I might have to appoint you as his replacement,” Daenerys purred as she stalked towards them.

Unsure if her threat was genuine or not and being unwilling to risk spending the rest of his life prancing around the Red Keep in a white cloak, Gendry reluctantly released Naharis’ wrist. He allowed himself a grin of satisfaction as the Captain of the Queensguard slumped to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Get up Daario,” the Queen ordered, “I want to speak to Gendry alone.”

“But Your Grace . . .” her Captain managed to whine through his pain.

“Out!”

Gendry could not suppress a smirk as Daario stumbled to his feet and, cradling his right arm protectively, staggered towards the door.

“Walk with me,” the Queen commanded.

Gendry still bristled with furious resentment, but no matter how angry he was with her, he could not refuse a direct order from his Queen’s own lips. So Gendry swallowed his pride, clenched his jaw and did as she asked.

The only sounds as they slowly traversed the great hall were the swishing of her dress over the tiled floor and the rhythmic clink of his spurs. The silence stretched between them, the air heavy with tension and Gendry’s resentment. Just when he thought Daenerys was going to torture him further by making him walk the whole length of the hall in silence, she stopped, looked up at him and said, “So you are not happy with my decision to grant the Stormlands to Edric.”

Gendry’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he shook his head. Now that was seven hells of an understatement. He answered her through gritted teeth, “I deserved the Stormlands. I have done everything you asked of me. No one has done more.”

She gave him an enigmatic smile and started walking again. Cursing her silently, Gendry stood and watched the Queen he had given five years of his life to, sway elegantly away. Suppressing the urge to turn on his heel, walk out and never return, he caught up with her in two of his long strides.

“Edric did nothing! Nothing, save hide behind his mother’s skirts and wait for me to free the Stormlands.”

“I know,” Daenerys soothed, “But still . . . he had the better claim.”

It was Gendry’s turn to halt dead in his tracks. “Better claim be damned! We’re both Robert’s bastards and he will not be half the Lord and Protector of the Stormlands I would have been. And you damn well know it!”

The Queen sighed wearily and looked up at him with those impenetrable purple eyes, “True, but it is not that simple. He was born of noble blood on both sides and Robert acknowledged him. I could not favour him over you and keep my other lords happy.”

“Fuck your other lords!” Gendry spat, “You deny me what should have been mine because Edric is less of a bastard than I am?!” His hands were fisted at his sides and if Daenerys had been a King instead of a Queen, she would have felt the full force of his wrath. Treason be damned, if she were a man, he would have pummelled her to a pulp with his bare hands. But she was half his size and he could not vent his frustration in a physical way. Barely keeping his anger in check, his voice was hard and cold as ice, as he growled, “I’ll not be used again. I sail for Braavos with the tide. I hear the Iron Bank has need of a strong arm to collect the debts owed by the Iron Throne.”

If Daenerys was troubled at all by his threat, then she did not show it. He was hurt, shamed and angry, but she knew him too well. He would not stoop to the depths of selling his sword and Daenerys knew it. 

Her expression remained serene and inscrutable. “What if I told you I have always had another reward in mind for you? An even greater prize than the Stormlands.”

“There is no greater prize for me than the Stormlands,” he spat. 

Daenerys gave him a sly smile and even a little giggle, “It is a good thing I know you better than you know yourself, my furious knight.”

Gendry eyed her warily. Daenerys Stormborn was far from the naive, inexperienced Queen she pretended to be. She had been a Khaleesi when little more than a child, had many more years of experience as a ruler now and, as he was finding out to his cost, she was a master at manipulating men. Daenerys would do anything to get what she wanted. He had rejected her sexual advances, politely but firmly, shortly after they first met. He began to wonder if Daenerys denying him now was, in part at least, revenge for his rejecting her before.

Stroking her delicate hand down from his shoulder to rest on the boiled leather over his heart, she looked up at him through thick lashes and whispered, “What if I could grant you your heart’s desire?”

The Dragon Queen knew nothing of his heart’s desire and he was certainly not going to give her any further information with which to twist and manipulate him now.

“You have already given Storm’s End to Edric,” he snapped angrily.

She gave him another one of her deceptively girlish little giggles and smiled slyly up at him. “What if I were to give you . . . Winterfell?” 

Whatever offer Gendry had expected her to make, it was not that.

“And all of the North.”

He was instantly suspicious, while at the same time his heart hammered so hard it seemed about to burst out of his chest. He hoped Daenerys, with her hand still resting over his heart, could not feel its thunder.

His heart’s desire lay behind Winterfell’s walls, but how could Daenerys possibly know that? Very few did and most of them died with the Brotherhood Without Banners years before.

Striving to keep his voice calm and not betray his warring emotions, he drawled, “And why should I trust you again after that farce today?”

“I never promised you the Stormlands Gendry,” she said with a resigned sigh.

“But you led me to believe they would be mine.”

“I did,” she admitted and gave him a little half smile of apology, “For that I am sorry, but believe me - I always had a bigger plan for you.”

“Which is?” he asked warily, interested in the specifics of her offer, but uncertain if he could, or should, trust her again.

“Take the Twins for me and I shall give you Winterfell. This time you have my word.”

He threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed cold and harsh around the empty hall.

Daenerys pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, her displeasure at his reaction written all over her beautiful face.

“You claim to offer me my heart’s desire, but send me to my death,” he mocked, bending down until his eyes were level with hers, so she could not mistake the depth of his anger, “The Twins have never fallen before, and even if I succeed where all others have failed, House Stark will always rule Winterfell, which is as it should be.”

Daenerys could not keep the smug tone from her voice as she replied, “And you shall be Lord Stark.”

“Pah!” he scoffed, “And lambs will become wolves.”

“You are quick to dismiss my offer Gendry, but if you had pondered this as long as I have, you would see that my plan is perfect; you need a name and Winterfell needs a Lord.”

The flame of his ambition, all but extinguished by Edric’s appointment earlier, began to flicker anew. Gendry inclined his head slightly, intrigued by her scheme despite himself. That was all the encouragement Daenerys needed to continue, “Arya Stark is heir to the North and she needs to make a strong alliance to help her hold Winterfell. Even as we speak, the Ironborn plot to retake Winterfell by force, the Boltons and the Karstarks plan a much more insidious takeover by marriage and the Others do not care who holds Winterfell as long as they are dead. How can a young girl hope to hold out against all of that … and me of course?” Daenerys added with a wicked, throaty chuckle.

Gendry ignored that last threat. If the Queen did indeed intend to gift him Winterfell, it would be on condition he held it for her and swore fealty to the Iron Throne. Arya would be safe from the Dragon Queen if he was by her side. However, the other perils Daenerys listed were all too real. Gendry had heard what the Ironborn and the Boltons had done to Winterfell at the start of the war and the thought of Arya facing that on her own made his blood turn to ice in his veins and that was before he thought of her married off to a treacherous Bolton or a bloody Karstark. 

Over his dead body would any of them claim his Arya, which, if Daenerys had her way, might be exactly how it happened.

“You think I can defeat the Freys and that I’ll hold Winterfell for you?” he asked, not quite believing he was giving her scheme credence by even considering it. 

“I know you can and you will. There is none better suited to this task than you. You have never lost a battle yet and you will win the Northmen’s respect if you the the Twins. The Northerners still crave revenge for the Red Wedding. Avenge Robb Stark and they will love you for that alone. Wed the girl and your position as Lord of Winterfell will be unassailable.”

Daenerys looked immensely smug and Gendry found himself wondering how long she had been planning this. Was it true she had never considered him for Storm’s End? That she had kept him in the dark while planning this from the outset? Knowing he had been used should have made his anger burn even more fiercely, but yet . . . if he could win Arya Stark with Winterfell and a title thrown into the bargain, then perhaps the cost to his pride was worth paying.

“I have no one else who can do this for me Gendry. There can never be peace if the Freys hold the crossing,” Daenerys pleaded, changing tack, trying to appeal to his love for and loyalty to Westeros itself. But his eyes had been well and truly opened to her manipulative ways. 

“Do it yourself then,” he said contemptuously, “The Freys aren’t fire proof.”

“True, but neither are the Twins. If I loose my Dragons on the Freys, I destroy the crossing. If I destroy the bridge across the Trident, I isolate the North and that is the last thing I want. Besides, I cannot risk leaving King’s Landing until my reign is secure,” she pleaded, taking his hand in hers. He flinched at the unwanted contact. It reminded him how small and delicate she was. On the outside.

“There is no one else I can send. The Northmen will accept Robert’s bastard over Aegon or, Gods forbid, Jaime and there is too much division amongst them for agreement on one of their own to lead them. Without the strength of Winterfell to bind them together, the North is just a collection of rival clans with no common purpose. Take the Twins and you will galvanise the North behind you. They will love you for it, even before you wed the girl and take her name. Think on it Gendry - your sons and daughters will be the heirs to the North.”

Dare he hope what Daenerys promised might come to pass? So many obstacles stood in his way; the Freys, the Trident itself, the impregnable fortress of Winterfell and Sansa Stark.

“What of the elder sister? Surely she must inherit Winterfell before the younger?”

“Leave Lady Sansa to me. She will not stand in your way. I already have another purpose for her.” 

For the first time, Gendry felt a stab of dislike for Daenerys. Before today he had admired her, perhaps feared her a little, but the smug satisfaction on Daenerys’ face as she crowed her satisfaction at having manipulated Sansa Stark out of the way stung him unexpectedly. Arya’s elder sister was nothing to him. Yet. But the thought of her being used to suit Daenerys’ plans twisted something in his gut. The Dragon Queen thought to use him, but this time he would grab what he wanted and once he held it, nothing would wrest it away from him. Not even Daenerys and her Dragons. 

Keeping his expression neutral and his voice bland to hide the growing excitement he felt, he said, “You seem to have planned this well.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything other than thorough?” she said, with a smile Gendry had once thought of as innocent.

He shook his head. It was obvious the Dragon Queen had laid plans for this long before Gendry had begun to hope the Stormlands might be his. He was now beginning to see Daenerys not as a Dragon, but as a beautiful, deadly, spider at the centre of a very intricate web.

But if her schemes suited him, then what had he to lose? He had nothing to his bastard name, save his weapons, his horse and the loyalty of the men who followed him into battle. Once he crossed the Trident, there was nothing and no one in Westeros who could prevent him taking what he wanted. 

But Gendry had one final question, one that had been keeping him awake for years, “What if Arya Stark will not have me? I am just a no name bastard after all.”

“Oh, she will have you,” Daenerys purred, “I shall see to it. Besides, what woman would not want you? Even Queens are not immune to your charms.”

Gendry did not miss the sarcasm and the edge of bitterness in the Queen’s voice. So his rejecting her advances still rankled Daenerys after all. However her irritation with him was fleeting and she was immediately back to the business at hand. 

“To ensure all goes to plan, I’ll send Tyrion Lannister with you. You are my best Commander Gendry, but you are no diplomat.”

Gendry snorted. “And your true purpose in sending him is to aid me, to keep an eye on me or because you want rid of him?”

Daenerys shrugged and gave him another sly smile, “What do you think?”

Tyrion was regarded by those who mattered, to be the smartest man in Westeros and in the Game of Thrones, knowledge was power. Gendry had no doubt the Queen wanted the imp out of the Red Keep for that reason alone. Whatever her reason, Gendry instantly decided it could only be to his advantage to have Tyrion by his side.

“I think it would be diplomatic of me to keep my opinion to myself,” he smirked.

Daenerys seemed amused by his answer, for she grinned broadly.

“So tell me Gendry, do you accept my offer of Winterfell, The North and Arya Stark?”

He hesitated for a mere moment. “Aye.”

Daenerys smiled slowly, her lilac eyes glittering, “There is one more thing . . .”

Gendry narrowed his eyes and curled his lip. He should have known there would be more. Daenerys always wanted more.

“The North will not endure unless the Others are defeated. Perhaps even the South is not safe. The Night’s Watch still struggle against them at The Wall and I mean to aid them all I can. For the sake of the realm, I am sending supplies and I am sending you.”

“Me?” Gendry repeated incredulously. Was their no end to Daenerys’ demands on him?

“I think you and Jon Snow will have much in common . . .”

“You mean we’re both bastards who have armies at our command, but have nothing else to show for our efforts; not even a name,” Gendry said bitterly.

Daenerys gave an exasperated sigh, “No. I meant you will have a common purpose in protecting Winterfell and Arya Stark.” 

“So I am to win two un-winnable battles before I can claim my prize?” 

“But what a prize it will be,” the Queen murmured seductively.

Gendry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. If he succeeded, Arya and all she brought to their marriage would be his. If he failed? Well . . . every man had to die sometime. 

Gendry snapped his eyes open and growled, “How soon can I leave?”

The Queen purred with delight, but she was no longer of any interest to him. His mind was already fixed on another woman, far to the North. Daenerys Targaryen was part of his past and Arya Stark was his future. Arya would be his or he would die fighting for the only woman he had ever loved. That sounded like a fair bargain to a no name bastard. 

-o-

Daenerys watched her bastard Commander’s broad back as he strode towards the doors. With Tyrion’s mastery of tactics and Gendry’s gift for warfare, the two of them had as great a chance of taking the Twins as she could give them. Holding The Wall was another matter entirely, but there was no more she could do at the moment. She could not leave King’s Landing, until her grip on the Iron Throne was secure and if she could not leave King’s Landing, then neither could her Dragons. It could be months, if not years from now before she could fly to Jon Snow’s aid.

As one of her Queen’s Guards opened the doors, she gave him the order that Gendry was to be allowed safe passage and that no one was to enter the hall until she gave word. With a bow, the white cloak acknowledged her command.

Once the great doors were safely closed, she intended to call out to the man hidden behind the Iron Throne to reveal himself, but a warm hand brushing her shoulder confirmed her Faceless Man had anticipated her thoughts once again. He swept her hair over her shoulder and trailed soft kisses over the nape of her neck as she relaxed against his touch.

“Did you see how Gendry flinched when I mention his heart’s desire?” Daenerys asked on a moan as shivers of anticipation and desire radiated up and down her spine.

“This man told the Queen so,” the Assassin whispered against her neck, his breath hot and enticing.

“I know you did Jaqen, but I’m still not sure that I trust you.”

He made no reply, but resumed his kisses. Daenerys could tell he was smiling as his lips feathered her nape.

“Did you take the Stark girl as your lover in Braavos?”

Jaqen stilled behind her and Daenerys wondered if he would refuse to answer her question. But after a long moment he replied, “No, although that girl was . . . receptive to this man’s charms.”

Daenerys felt him smile again. She wondered if she would have been jealous, if Jaqen and Arya Stark had been lovers. Daenerys had heard the girl was very beautiful.

“So if she wanted you, why didn’t you take her? I’m sure she wouldn’t have regretted it.”

Daenerys had no doubt Jaqen would please any woman in bed. He was one of the best she had ever had and she had many.

He gave an uncharacteristic sigh and again Daenerys wondered if he would refuse to answer. Then slowly he replied, “This man would have been her first and it did not seem . . . right.”

So the Faceless Man had a conscience. It surprised Daenerys that a hired killer would care about what was right and what was wrong. But Arya Stark had been one of Jaqen’s kind too. Perhaps they had their own code of ethics. Daenerys had heard of honour amongst thieves, although she had seen little evidence of it. Still, she filed that piece of information away for future use. Who knew when Jaqen having a conscience might come in useful? 

Taking the Assassin as lover had no doubt been foolish, but there was a certain something about him that Daenerys had been unable to resist. Perhaps it was the danger he represented or the fact that she was not quite sure where his loyalties lay, that thrilled her. Very little else did these days. 

As far as she knew, the Guild was not charging her any extra for his personal services, although she wondered if they knew. Was Jaqen obliged to report everything back to the House of Black and White? Perhaps she would receive an additional account for his sexual services at the end of it. Just then, he licked the side of her neck, dragging his tongue up and around her ear, ending with a little nip on her lobe. It was just the right side of painful and sent jolts of pleasure shooting through her. With a sigh of longing, she realised that, whatever the cost, he was worth it. He was a consummate lover and, with his ability to change his appearance at will, it was akin to having many lovers in one. Surely she would never grow bored of that and the opportunity of their being alone in the throne room was not to be wasted. 

“We will not be disturbed and there is something I want you to do for me.”

“Anything for the Dragon Queen,” he murmured as his kisses trailed lower and his hands, his killer’s hands, trailed down the swell of her hips and over the curve of her bottom to caress her thighs. Oh, but he was good and the groan of need that escaped her lips was entirely genuine. 

“I always hoped I would wed and bed a Targaryen. Would any of your faces fulfil that fantasy?”

He laughed softly and whispered against her ear, “This man can give the Queen her heart’s desire.”

Daenerys immediately missed his warmth as he pulled away. After giving him a moment to change his face, she turned around. A man with white blond hair and cruel, purple eyes stood in front of her. From a distance he could have been mistaken for her brother Viserys, but Daenerys tried to smile anyway.

Being careful not to let her disappointment show, Daenerys took Jaqen’s hand and led him to the foot of the Iron Throne.

“You go first. It is particularly uncomfortable and I’d prefer to be on top.”

With a wicked, lecherous smile, Jaqen or whatever he called himself now, started up the steep steps. Watching him ascend, Daenerys thought on the Targaryen she really wanted; her heart’s true desire. They said he was tall, with curling brown hair and eyes so dark as to be almost black. His reputation as Commander of the Night’s Watch and as man intrigued her to the point that she knew no one else would satisfy her until she had him. It was predetermined, of that she had no doubt. But the time was not yet right.

Until it was, she would have to make do with sending Gendry to The Wall and with Jaqen between her thighs. 

Perhaps it was better the Assassin knew nothing of her heart’s true desire. Jaqen was useful in many ways; it was he who had known of Gendry’s infatuation with Arya Stark and Daenerys had used that to push Gendry in the direction she needed him to go. But only a fool would trust a Faceless Man.

Daenerys instinctively knew she would trust Jon Targaryen. Although the time was not right, someday she would have him. With that wish on her lips, Daenerys began climbing the steps of the Iron Throne where the mummer’s Dragon waited for her.


	2. Winterfell's treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is perhaps not the place to thank everyone for their support over on the Reluctant Bride story – but I’m gonna do it anyway. I love you guys and it was quite emotional coming back and receiving all those wonderful supportive comments.
> 
> To my delight, chapter one of this new story seems to have been well received. Thanks for all the comments and reviews and thanks for coming back for more!
> 
> -o-

The icy north wind blew loose strands of hair around their faces and Meera’s skirts around her ankles. Arya shivered, but not from the cold; her furs and the warmth radiating from Winterfell’s walls kept the worst of the cold at bay. It was the view of the kingsroad far below that chilled her to the bone. 

A spear of black and silver pushed slowly, relentlessly through the silent, snowy landscape. 

Arya always knew this day would come, but her prayers and her hopes had been twisted into the stuff of nightmares. She had prayed for an army to come when the snow began to melt and the kingsroad became passable once more. Spring should have brought hope, but instead the army marching towards her brought despair, for they came, not from the North, but from the South. 

Day after day, Arya had gone to the Godswood asking her father’s Gods for guidance and help; praying for her beloved Jon to arrive first. She prayed for his safe return; victorious, with an army at his back and food in his wagons, to claim Winterfell and relieve her of her unwanted burden.

But day after day, the Heart Tree remained silent and with every passing day more snow melted and more of the kingsroad began to emerge from the blanket of white. If there had only been a few hundred men on the march, their situation would not be quite so dire, but there must be thousands down there on the kingsroad. Tomorrow the reprieve winter brought them would undoubtedly come to an end.

Although it was past noon, the weak spring sun had barely risen above the horizon. It shone in Arya’s eyes and glinted off metal and snow, making it impossible to pick out details amongst the swathe of black heading north.

“Can you see what sigil adorns their banners?” Meera asked, in her usual calm, pragmatic manner. “I think I see red, but I cannot be sure.”

Whichever army marched towards Winterfell now, the only thing Arya could be sure of was; it was not Jon’s.

“Lannister, Targaryen, Kettleback, Florent, Umber…” Meera began to list all the Houses who favoured red in their sigils, “…Tully,” she added hopefully.

“Or Bolton or any House who has added the fiery heart of the Red God to their banners,” Arya added tersely. 

There was no denying it; Meera was right. As usual. The banners were red on black, when all Arya wanted to see was the unbroken black of the Night’s Watch. Why, oh why were the banners marching towards them not black from the north, instead of red from the south? 

“We’ll see them plain enough tomorrow when they overrun us,” Meera said, matter-of-factly as she stood on her tip-toes to peer over the crenulations. “That army will be through our gates tomorrow, whether we open them or not.”

Arya wondered if all Crannogmen and women were as plain talking as Meera Reed. Meera was the only person from the Neck Arya had ever met and sometimes, like now, Meera spoke so tactlessly that Arya wanted to grind her teeth or scream in frustration. Seeing for herself the hopelessness of their situation was bad enough. Hearing Meera voice it aloud time and again was too much. But instead of screaming, Arya closed her eyes, rested her weary head against one of Winterfell’s warm walls and listened to the relentless drip, drip. Even that brought no relief. The rhythmic dripping of melting snow sounded, to Arya, like an army’s feet on the march.

No matter how badly Arya didn’t want to hear it, Meera’s assessment of their situation was correct. Tomorrow, one way or another, it would all be over. They had no men, no horses and insufficient weapons with which to defend Winterfell and no supplies to withstand a siege. 

When the first flurries of winter snow arrived, Jon had begged Arya to send every man and all the supplies she could spare to the Wall. And she had. She had sent Jon everything and prayed that the unforgiving northern winter would be enough to protect Winterfell from her enemies until Jon could relieve them in the spring. 

In her arrogance, Arya believed she could hold Winterfell without the men and had shouted down anyone who suggested otherwise. She could do anything a man could do and therefore, if Jon’s need was greater, the men should go. It had seemed so logical then. But how Arya rued her arrogance now. 

The women who were left tried their best to do everything she asked of them, but it wasn’t enough; could never be enough. Many of the women she expected to train to guard the leagues of Winterfell’s walls had children and babes to take care of and Winterfell could not function without bakers and brewers and carpenters and a thousand other basic tasks had to be accomplished every day before she could think of training or even such vital work as maintaining the defensive walls. Arya had halved the number of able bodied adults overnight and now she had to pay the price.

It had been Arya’s decision and hers alone, to send the men to The Wall, but everyone in Winterfell had to live with the consequences. Yet no one had complained. Even the smallest children did what they could, but it was exhausting and relentless and with food rationed for moons now, it had become harder and harder. 

Their supplies were almost gone and Arya had little to feed her people save what game she and Meera could hunt and kill. After a long, hard winter, even that had dwindled away to almost nothing. They were starving. There, she had admitted it to herself. With an army surrounding Winterfell and no way of hunting, they only had enough food to last another few days. Her empty belly growled as if in agreement. In order to stretch their meagre supplies of food even further, she and Meera had eaten only thin soup for weeks. Arya was worn down by the strain of it all. Even opening her eyes seemed impossibly wearying. But she did it, only to see the ominous black ribbon had unfurled even further.

“I will sneak out and into their camp when it is dark. I will find out who they are and what they plan. Then I will kill as many of their leaders as I can while they sleep.” 

For the first time in weeks, Arya felt herself smile. It would be good to become the old Arya again; the assassin whose only responsibility was to herself, whose only purpose was to bring the gift of death, which was so much easier than trying to keep people alive.

Meera turned to look at her with those too clever, too clear, green eyes. “And what good would that do? Cut the head off that snake and it will grow back another even more vicious than the first.”

Arya did not like being told her plan was flawed. She had already failed her people. Having Meera dismiss the only hope she had left, stung Arya badly.

“You risk being caught,” Meera argued, “At best, all you will achieve is to bring the fury of a vengeful army down upon on heads. At least we can still bargain with them if their leader lives and if you are within Winterfell’s walls.”

“But we have nothing with which to bargain,” Arya muttered, cursing herself again for the lack of men, horses and food. 

“Ha! You are very wrong. We have you.”

“Me?” Arya scoffed, fisting her calloused hands against her patched britches and wishing she didn’t know where this argument was heading.

“Lady Arya Stark is Winterfell’s greatest treasure,” Meera replied smugly.

Arya snorted. She was no man’s ‘treasure’.

“You know I am right. Marriage to you will bring some House a great alliance and armies do not destroy their allies, only their enemies. To bargain an alliance is the best we can hope for.”

Arya grimaced. That was no plan either. So much for Meera’s practicality. “An alliance to what? A crumbling castle with no gold and no army? An alliance to a House that has lost everything - even its sword?”

Meera was so much shorter than Arya that she had to tilt her stubborn chin right up to meet her friend’s eyes, but the difference in height did not stop Meera jabbing her finger into the centre of Arya’s chest. Hard.

“Do not let me hear you speak like that again,” Meera said, anger making her tone clipped and her voice louder.

Arya winced. She had faced death innumerable times and gifted it more, but she would rather argue with the Stranger himself than Meera Reed and, Arya thought ruefully, she probably had a greater chance of winning against the Stranger. 

Despite their sizes being so mismatched, Arya was a little afraid of Meera and her temper. It did not appear often, but when it did, it was a thing to be feared. So Arya said no more and limited herself to glaring down at her friend. Her insolence was rewarded with another hard poke to the chest.

“Marriage to you will bring some fortunate man an alliance with the noblest House in Westeros and the opportunity to plant his seed in the cradle of the North.”

Arya winced. Now her womb was ‘the cradle of the North’? She hated it when Meera spoke of her as if she was a brood mare whose only value was to birth some despicable lord’s babes. She would kill any man who tried to ‘plant his seed’ anywhere near her. Arya knew ways to bring death so discreetly that no one would ever suspect anything other than a tragic accident. If she was forced into a marriage, then wouldn’t it be so unlucky if her new husband died on his wedding night? Arya allowed herself a little smirk of satisfaction. If marriage was the only option left – then so be it. With any luck, every other man would think her cursed and leave her well alone after her first husband’s unfortunate death.

“I know what you are thinking,” Meera said sharply, “And you had better stop it. You will do whatever needs to be done to save your people and if that means a marriage alliance then you’ll do it and you’ll pretend you like it. You cannot let innocent women and children die because you are too selfish and pig headed to . . .”

Arya knew she sounded petty and selfish and spiteful, but she was going to say it anyway “You are as much a lady as I am! In fact, you are more of a lady than I am. At least you are pretty and wear a dress. You can marry the damn lord!”

“If it would help our people I would!” Meera shot back, “But my father could still produce another son and heir . . .” 

They had fought this same battle before and Arya knew what was coming next,

“. . . and besides, marriage to a Reed of Greywater Watch is nothing compared to a Stark of Winterfell.”

Arya hated discussing this, hated having to think upon marriage alliances or her father’s untimely death, hated being reminded of her dead brothers, and hated being the only Stark left in Winterfell, perhaps the only Stark in the whole of Westeros. 

It was all so unfair. Winterfell shouldn’t be her responsibility; trying to keep everyone alive shouldn’t be her burden to bear alone. It should be her father sitting here looking out at this never ending army, or Robb or Bran or Jon or even Rickon. Anyone but her.

“Robb named Jon as his heir and Sansa, as the older, comes before me…”

“Will you just stop it?!” Meera yelled, finally loosing all patience and stamping her foot in frustration, “Jon is a Targaryen and Sansa has no interest in Winterfell or the North. If she is even alive. The future of House Stark is in your hands Arya. You are House Stark. You are Winterfell. You are our only hope.” Every declaration Meera made was emphasised by another finger poked at Arya’s chest. 

Knowing that they were all gone, that she was alone, was too much for Arya to bear; her father, her mother, Robb, Bran and Rickon were dead and she had heard nothing of Sansa since long before the winter began. Even then, news of Sansa’s return to King’s Landing had been hopelessly out of date and hard to believe. And what of her dear Jon? 

They had sent countless ravens north and none had returned since midwinter. Meera stubbornly maintained that naught was amiss, that even eagles had to eat and their ravens were simply easy prey. Arya wished she believed it. She wanted to believe that Jon and Sansa still lived, that there was still hope, but the Starks had never been optimists; Winter was always coming. With words like those, it was little wonder the Starks were prone to introspection and darkness. 

Arya could listen no more and stalked away from Meera and her harsh realities and even heavier expectations. She knew ignoring Meera wouldn’t change anything, but it would make her feel less . . . inadequate. Put a sword in her hand and Arya would fight anyone, but what use was one person, even one who had once belonged to the Guild of Faceless Men, against an entire army?

Stopping as far away from Meera as she could, Arya hugged her furs tighter and leaned against Winterfell’s warm wall, taking comfort from its strength and heat. But how much longer would Winterfell’s walls protect the Starks and the people of the North? The ominous black ribbon unravelling before her would not stop until it had wrapped itself around Winterfell and squeezed what little life remained out of them. The result was inevitable; tomorrow Winterfell would fall. The only question was how. With no means to defend her beloved home, Arya either had to open the gates, or watch them be broken down.

If she truly was the last of them, the survival of House Stark was her responsibility and hers alone. It was an immense burden; one Arya did not want and did not feel equal to carrying. She had been entrusted with Winterfell for one winter and look what had happened – only starving women and children were left. Not only starving, but helpless against this approaching army. She had failed everyone; her people, her father and those countless generations of Starks who had held Winterfell before her.

Arya heard the soft sound of Meera’s feet approach again. Damn her, why wouldn’t she just go away and leave Arya to wallow in her misery? 

“You must listen to me . . .”

Arya groaned, “Do I have a choice? It seems you won’t leave me alone.” 

Of course Meera had no intention of leaving Arya. Even if Meera had wanted to, which she didn’t, there was no escape from Winterfell now. Besides, she had promised Bran she would help Arya. Nothing would make Meera break that promise. If she had the size or strength to shake Arya Stark she would have, instead she had to make do with yelling at her, 

“You are a Stark!” Meera shouted into bitter north wind, “You will do whatever needs to be done to ensure the survival of your House and everyone within these walls. You will not leave Winterfell and you will not gift death to the leader of that army. But you will play the Stark heiress and you will enter into this marriage alliance and make the best of it. For all of us.” 

Arya groaned again. She doubted there was a warrior in the whole of Westeros who could hold out against a direct verbal assault from Meera Reed. 

The worst of it was – Arya had no other arguments left. There was no other way. In order to save her people, Arya had to sacrifice herself to whichever lord led that army, no matter how old or ugly or cruel. If he would have her. She only hoped Meera’s faith in Winterfell’s treasure was justified.

“That lord down there has to believe you are a prize worth not fighting for.” Meera wrinkled her nose as she gave Arya a long look up and down, “Come on,” she said impatiently, “We have seven hells of a lot of work to do to you.” 

Taking a final look at the advancing army and with a heartfelt groan, Arya trudged off down the stairs after Meera.

“Where are we going?” Arya shouted as Meera left the twisting, turret staircase to disappear in an unusual direction.

“The Lord’s chambers,” Meera’s voice echoed back into the stairwell.

Arya stopped with one foot in mid air. Her mother and father’s rooms? She had avoided them since her return. The memories were too painful. Confused, she hurried to catch up with Meera. 

“Why?”

“Because your room is too small and your bed is too narrow.”

Arya cursed swiftly and loudly. Meera, unperturbed by that outburst, asked, “Did you really think that cell of yours would be suitable for the bedding?” 

Arya groaned again, but louder this time. She had not considered the bedding. If she had thought on having to wed at all, giving the gift of death to her new husband had always preceded actually having to get beneath the covers with him. She shuddered at the thought of lying with some stinking old lord. Unfortunately that particular nightmare seemed likely to become a reality tomorrow.

“If I have to do it, I cannot do it here. Not in my mother and father’s . . .”

By now they were outside the Lord’s chambers and, before Arya could say ‘bed’, Meera had pushed the door open.

Arya could not help but gasp in surprise. Gone were the heavy drapes and tapestries from the walls and the rushes from the floor. Arya remembered her father’s trunks and chests and her mother’s cabinets lining the walls, but they too were gone and the room seemed larger and less confined than Arya remembered. The full length windows were flung open onto the balcony, letting the north wind blow cold, fresh air into the room and the pale winter sun bathed it in a cool, soft light. The floor was now strewn with thick furs, as was the bed. 

The bed, where tomorrow night she would have to . . . Arya was sure it was even larger than she remembered and not in the same place. Sure they must be in the wrong room, Arya dipped her head out into the corridor again to check, but there were no other doors in this private corridor. This was indeed the room that had once been her parents’.

“Unlike you, I have been preparing for this day for a long time,” Meera said smugly.

Arya scowled. She hated it when Meera anticipated an event before it happened, and that seemed to be happening with increasing regularity.

“The dressing room is ready too.”

Arya hadn’t even remembered there was a dressing room. As children, they were not encouraged to attend their parent’s sleeping quarters and Arya only remembered being here when she was running a fever or to visit one of her sickly siblings. They had only been allowed into their parents’ bed when they were ill, so they could be nursed by their mother. Except Jon of course. Arya wondered glumly who had nursed him. 

Taking another look around, Arya could not associate her memories with this room. She supposed that was a good thing, seeing as that bed was where she had been conceived, birthed and where she would . . .

“It’s not the same bed,” Meera said abruptly, before heading towards a door set in the wall that Arya presumed must be the dressing room.

Arya started to follow, but as her feet sank into the thick furs, she stopped to pull her boots off and left them out in the corridor.

The sound of sloshing water told her there was a bath in the dressing room. The only thing Winterfell was not short of was hot water. Arya paused for a moment to savour the rich, enticing scent. When she closed her eyes, it brought to mind tranquil gardens and cool, summer evenings.

When she walked into the dressing room, Meera was easing the cork back into a vial of oil.

“Hmmm, what is that smell?” Arya asked, taking another deep, delicious, breath.

“Lotus oil, I’ve been saving it for . . . oh, never mind. It will make you smell better than you do just now.”

“I smell?” Arya asked, raising her arm and sniffing.

“Hmmmph,” Meera replied, diplomatically not answering that question and instead said, “Look at your nails. You look like you’ve been digging in the dirt.”

Arya spread her fingers wide and looked at them. They weren’t dirty, but they weren’t all that clean either and if they looked as if she had been scrabbling around in the dirt, it was because she had been.

“The ground around the walls is no longer frozen – at least not the topsoil, so the children and I were searching for vegetables we might have missed during the last harvest.”

“And did you find any?” Meera asked, her voice rising with hope.

“Yes,” Arya grinned, “Gods, but we were careless before the winter. We found enough beetroot, potatoes and carrots and to fill a couple of barrels and all as fresh as when we dug up the rest.”

Then, to Meera’s surprise, Arya groaned, sat down heavily on the side of the stone tub and dropped her head into her hands.

“What have we come to Meera? Listen to us – getting excited over a couple of barrels of old vegetables.”

Meera would have put her arm around her friend, only she knew how much Arya disliked being touched. Instead she said gently, “Those barrels are the difference between the children going to bed hungry tonight or not.”

Arya suddenly straightened as a terrible thought occurred to her, “What if that lord won’t share his supplies with us? What if we let him in and I do . . . all that and still we’re starving?”

“Don’t worry,” Meera soothed, wishing she could give Arya a reassuring hug. The truth was that Meera wanted some physical reassurance herself. She had planned as best she could, but there was so much she did not know and that was beyond her control. No matter how much she wanted it or needed him, nothing could bring Bran back to her now.

Shaking off her melancholy thoughts, Meera squared her shoulders and declared, “We will negotiate the terms before we . . . you . . . do the deal and if your husband doesn’t keep his word, then I’ll let you kill him.”

That reassured Arya slightly. There was always the gift of death.

“Stop assuming the worst,” Meera chided, “Honour and being seen to be keeping their word means everything to these lords and this one must come from a Great House if he has an army that size. If we negotiate an alliance then we must assume he’ll honour it. But it won’t hurt if you look like his wet dream come to life. Men are more biddable when they are satisfied.”

“Wet dream?” Arya repeated, puzzled. Meera raised her eyebrows and gave Arya her just think about it look. 

“Oh!” Arya exclaimed as she realised what Meera meant. A hot flush raced up Arya’s neck to her cheeks.

“Now that is good!” Meera exclaimed, clapping her hands together happily, “Blushing makes you look more . . . innocent. You should do that a lot around your new husband.”

Arya groaned in dismay. Tomorrow night, in this bedchamber with her new husband, she was sure to be as red as one of the beetroots she had dug up earlier today, “Are you sure I cannot just kill him tonight?” she pleaded.

Ignoring her, Meera pulled at the leather thong tied at the end of Arya’s braid. Arya squawked in protest.

“Stop complaining. I am touching your hair, not you. Now go and sit in front of that mirror. And give me those clothes; you won’t be needing them again.”

“Give you my clothes? No! I like them and besides, I have nothing else to wear.”

Meera replied with a wide, smug smile that had Arya groaning again.

“I told you, I have been planning this for a long time.”

“You’ve got a dress for me to wear haven’t you?”

“Of course,” Meera said, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at Arya when she cursed under her breath.

“Remember your promise – to do whatever it takes to save Winterfell and that certainly involves wearing a dress!”

With a final, resigned sigh, Arya began shedding her clothes, only for Meera to seize them as soon as they fell to the floor. Arya thought about grabbing her britches back, but that would only result in a tugging match with Meera and saving the britches would not be worth the scolding Arya would have to endure as a result.

Once they were all off, Meera had the pile in her arms and was out of the door before Arya could change her mind. 

There was a full length mirror on the far wall with a chair in front of it, where Meera had indicated she should sit. The mirror was angled towards the bath, so Arya could not see her refection. Yet. 

Arya avoided mirrors. She had never been vain enough to want to look in them before and since the House of Black and White she had been wary. Looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger’s face staring back at her was an experience she never intended to repeat. However, there would be Meera’s wrath to contend with if she did not do as she was told. Keeping her eyes downcast, Arya walked towards the mirror and sat down on the chair, only to recoil in shock as soon as she looked up.

She barely recognised the haunted woman in the mirror. Her eyes were huge, grey and hard as flint as they stared back at her. Her face was thinner than she had ever seen it; her cheek bones sharp, her chin pointed and when had her hair grown so long? Arya had begun braiding it out of necessity when it fell in her eyes, but she could not say how long ago that had been; long enough for a thick, messy, braid of dark hair to grow down over her shoulder, covering one of her teats. 

Reaching up to move the braid, Arya paused as caught sight of her hands in the mirror. They were too big and too strong to be ladies hands. She looked down at them, turning them over and back, as if seeing them for the first time. They were worker’s hands, killer’s hands and certainly not the pale, delicate little hands a lord would expect to hold or brush his lips against. Meera might think her a ‘treasure’ for some lord to win, but Arya doubted any lord who was not blind, or rather blinded by his greed for Winterfell, would agree.

With a resigned sigh, she reached for the braid again and began unplaiting it, taking a rare, grudged, look at her reflection while she did so. Even her breasts looked unfamiliar; small and high, capped with pointed teats that were surprisingly dark against her pale, winter, skin. Protruding collarbones and the shadows above them reinforced the shocking reality of how thin she had become. Much as she had disliked her soft breasts and curved hips, they were preferable to the muscle, vein and sinew stretched tight over bones she saw now. 

“Do not sigh so,” Meera chided as she returned and began hunting through drawers that had once belonged to Catelyn Stark. Arya did not even bother to ask what Meera was searching for. She did not want to think on her dead mother or her belongings, any more than she wanted to think on her own, unpleasant appearance.

Walking around behind her with a bristled brush in her hand, Meera waited for Arya’s permission to begin. After receiving an almost imperceptible nod of consent, Meera began to tentatively brush out Arya’s hair. Arya closed her eyes. Although she disliked being touched, the long, rhythmic stokes of the brush through her hair were almost soothing.

Closing her eyes also meant she did not have to look at the reflections of either Meera or herself in the mirror. Meera was also too thin. Why had Arya assumed her own appearance would somehow remain the same while everyone else around her wasted away? She supposed it was just another symptom of her arrogance. She had failed to protect Winterfell’s inhabitants as a Stark should have and now it had come to this; Winterfell was at the mercy of some foreign lord and it was all her fault.

Standing behind the chair, Meera arranged Arya’s hair so that long dark waves framed Arya’s face and hung well past her shoulders, hiding her small breasts and her wide, shoulders.

“You are beautiful,” Meera said with indulgent smile.

Arya reluctantly opened her eyes, but still did not like what she saw, “I am too thin, with a horse face and a man’s body.”

Meera laughed, a sound so rare that Arya had almost forgotten it. Then Arya smiled too, finding Meera’s laughter, however fleeting, to be infectious.

Stepping back, Meera urged her friend to stand. Reluctantly Arya did as she was bid; pushing up on long, slim legs to stand naked in front of the mirror with Meera, not even reaching to her shoulder, peeking out from behind.

“I can assure you no man has a body like that.”

Arya had to agree. Without her clothes, there was no mistaking her for a man. No man had such a tapered waist that flared out over wide, albeit bony, hips or a neat, dark triangle of hair nestling between long, smooth thighs that were still powerful, despite being too thin to meet until almost her knees.

As if reading her thoughts, Meera said softly, “Yes, you are too thin, but look how strong your body is. Any lord will know that you will bear him strapping sons and beautiful daughters.”

Arya had to look away. She never wanted any of this; never wanted to be a lady, never wanted a husband or his strapping sons and she certainly never wanted the responsibility of Winterfell. But short of running away, she had run out of options. This was all her fault for sending all the men to the Wall and if the only way to make good her mistake was to sacrifice herself; then that is what she would do. She could not desert her people, no matter the personal cost. 

So she would wear a damn dress and simper and smile and do whatever was needed to convince this bloody lord that she was acceptable enough to wed. Hopefully he would be rich; with an army like that, surely he had to be. When he eventually received the gift of death (after a reasonable period of time of course, so not even Meera would suspect) perhaps there would be enough gold to rebuild Winterfell and allow Arya her freedom to live as an eternally grieving widow, safe from another man’s avaricious schemes to get his hands on her treasure.

“I don’t know why you find the idea of being wed so distasteful. Surely having children of your own and knowing you have kept the Stark line alive, will be enough to sustain you through any marriage,” Meera said, walking back towards the bath. “It was enough for your mother,” she added darkly.

Arya chose to ignore that last comment. She had thought her parent’s marriage perfect when she was little. Age and uncomfortable discussions with Jon had taken the shine off her golden memory, but she wasn’t going to discuss any of that with Meera. 

“If I do wed, any children won’t be Starks, will they? They’ll belong to whatever House he does,” Arya snapped bad temperedly. 

Talking of children made everything seem so much more real and so much worse. She had never imagined having children and certainly not under these circumstances. She had not even come to terms with the fact that, if all went well, tomorrow there would be a bedding, much less the thought of there being a babe nine moons later.

 

Meera pursed her lips, but said no more. She walked a fine line here. Bran had told her so much; there would be a babe and that Arya’s child would see Winterfell flourish again. Meera had contemplated telling Arya all that Bran had revealed, but had ultimately decided against it. 

Despite everything Bran foretold having, so far, come to pass, he had been delirious with fever towards the end and his predictions had become rambling and incoherent. What of the stag with the broken antlers? It was supposed to come before the army. Every day Meera had looked for some sign of it, but none was to be found and they had run out of time. The day was nearly done, the army nearly here and there was still no stag. If it had appeared, at least they could have eaten it, Meera thought unhappily and her empty stomach growled its agreement. 

Then there was Bran’s final prediction, the one for Meera, the one she could not believe; the one she was certain would not, could not, ever be true. And if one prediction could be wrong, then so could the rest. Couldn’t they? No, it was better to hint and cajole and steer Arya in the right direct, but not to offer any hope, for that would only cause more pain if Bran was proved to be wrong.

But Meera had known this day would come and she hadn’t needed the greensight to see it. With no soldiers and no food, it was inevitable Arya’s marriage alliance would be the only way out of their predicament. So she had made ready the Lord’s chamber and a wedding dress. 

There had been a terrible inevitability about it all, perhaps since Robert Baratheon’s arrival in Winterfell, perhaps even before then. Had the die been cast the day Robert Baratheon first laid eyes on Lyanna Stark? A person could drive themselves mad thinking about it and wondering what if.

What was certain was that, one by one, the Starks had fallen and even Winterfell had succumbed to her enemies – not once, but twice and tomorrow perhaps again. Bran had foreseen so much and had asked Meera to stay in Winterfell, even when he knew that he himself had no future there. 

Her duty now was to help Arya and to ensure the Starks remained in Winterfell, by whatever means necessary. Bran had made her promise she would. Only after that was done, would she think on herself. Until the future of the Starks and Winterfell was secure there was no time for her. 

Meera tried not to think on what else Bran had predicted; how she would betray his memory. When she had doubted him and told him he was wrong and even when she had cried and raged at him and sworn she would never do what he foresaw, he had calmly assured her she would. 

Meera had hated Bran then; hated him for telling her, hated him even more for leaving her. Almost as much as she had hated herself for what he said she would do. But she would definitely not think on that now. Winterfell needed her. Arya needed her and she would honour Bran’s memory. But she would not do that. No matter what Bran said, no matter what he thought he had seen, Meera knew he was wrong. There would be no other man for her and that the love she had for Bran would endure until her dying day.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she said, “Just get in the bath Arya. That army will be outside our gates at dawn. You need to look like a lady and I fear that will not be a quick or easy task.”

Arya snorted. “If you can work that magic, can you also make this lord handsome and my bride-price wagons full of food?”

“We shall see,” Meera sighed. Handsome they could do without; wagons full of food were a matter of life and death. 

It was going to be a long night.

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t say in the last chapter, but I should have said that Brazilian Guy has helped me with this. If you’ve read the Reluctant Bride story, you’ll know he’s my sounding board and always suggests tweaks to make the story better. Due to the time difference (and his having just bought himself a PS4!) he’s not going to be able to look at every chapter, but he has helped me with the concept and the plot outline, so thanks again BG! 
> 
> Happy New Year to you all when it comes.


	3. The seed is strong

Gendry stood alone at the edge of the camp, well beyond the warmth and light of the fires and looked towards Winterfell. The Stark stronghold loomed before him in the moonlight, silent and black and soon to be his. 

After one final meeting with Tyrion and his Captains, Gendry had made a half hearted attempt to sleep, but of course sleep wouldn’t come; not with his prize finally within his grasp.

Sheer weight of numbers would guarantee him victory tomorrow; a victory he hoped would be swift and bloodless. He did not intend his marriage to Arya to begin in fire and blood, but if she would not yield to him, would he have a choice? Daenerys had promised him Winterfell and he had not fought his way here to leave empty handed. 

Gendry carried two scrolls with him, safe in a leather pouch against his hip. The scrolls had not left his possession since the Dragon Queen and Lady Sansa Stark had sealed them in the Red Keep. Daenerys had promised him that these scrolls would bring him what he wanted. They had better. By nightfall tomorrow he intended Arya Stark and Winterfell to be his. The thought made him burn hot, even though he was standing in the coldest place he had ever known.

Listening to the debate about how they should take Winterfell, Gendry had kept his own counsel, as had Tyrion. Every one of his Captains was a veteran of many successful campaigns and he had faith in their abilities and judgement and he had weighed the merits of each argument carefully; direct attack, stealth or siege. Yet he was still undecided, for there was another option. 

No one else, not even Queen Daenerys, knew that he and Lady Arya Stark were already acquainted. He could simply tell Arya who he was and why he was here. And hope. 

But his uncertainty over her reaction made that an unpalatable choice. They had found friendship once, long ago, but there was a huge chasm between friendship and what he wanted of her now. Wanted? What he needed from her. Storm’s End was lost to him but he would not lose Winterfell. Arya might hold out against the Boltons or the Ironborn, but she couldn’t hope to stand against Daenerys and her Dragons or the six thousand men Gendry commanded. House Stark would bend the knee to the Iron Throne sooner or later. He intended it to be sooner and he would not stop there. With the might of the Iron Throne behind him and Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell by his side, the whole of the North would be his.

But first he had to win his bride. Arya was hardly going to welcome him with open arms and simply give him Winterfell and her name; much less allow him into her bed. The thought of bedding her sent a new wave of heat blasting through him. By this time tomorrow; he could have it all.

Then he shook his stupid head, for he might just as easily be standing here tomorrow night with no more than he had now – which was precisely nothing. 

His head swam with rampant ambition, foolish hopes and self doubt. Seven hells, Arya might not even remember the stupid bastard boy who’d abandoned her to join the Brotherhood.

That was not the way he thought of it at the time of course; that he was abandoning her. His desire to better himself, to be a knight, had been so great it had blinded him to all else. Jon Arryn had plucked him out of the Flea Bottom gutter by apprenticing him to Tobho Mott. Yoren had given him the chance to escape King’s Landing. But joining the Knights of the Hollow Hill had been Gendry’s first opportunity to pull himself up by his own efforts and, by the Gods, he had seized it.

Still ignorant of his paternity, he had been oblivious to how fiercely the fire of ambition would eventually burn in his belly. Gendry supposed he had his father to thank for that particular appetite, in addition to his unwanted, but compelling love of strong drink. But his desire for wine was easily suppressed in comparison to his burning drive to prove himself. Lord Dondarrion had lit the spark of that ambition. Beric and the men of the Brotherhood had shown a no-name bastard that he didn’t have to sink back to the Flea Bottom gutters. Joining the Brotherhood had been Gendry’s chance to rise. For the first time he dared hope that he could rise high enough to be respected by men like Lord Beric and someday, be worthy of a name. To a stupid bastard boy, that had been all that mattered. So he had chosen his desire for glory and status over her. 

If Arya remembered him at all, perhaps his abandoning her would be all she remembered. 

Gendry had never thought himself a coward before, but what was this new, oppressive fear before a battle, if not cowardice? An unconscious groan escaped from his chest to hang in the still night air, along with his frozen breath. Seven hells, it would be bad enough if she slammed Winterfell’s gates in the face of the Commander of the Dragon Queen’s army. It would be a thousand times worse if she knew who he was and still slammed those gates against him. 

What if she laughed at him and his marriage proposal? What if she said she’d rather die than see him as Lord of Winterfell? He scrubbed his hands over his face and beard before dragging them slowly through his hair. By the Gods, the shame of it would probably kill him. 

“You can’t sleep either?” a yawing voice asked. Gendry had been so lost in his thoughts of the past and his future that it took him a moment to pull himself back into the present and realise Tyrion was speaking to him.

Gendry gave a grunt of confirmation. The last thing he needed was Tyrion pressing him for a decision on tomorrow’s course of action. With only a few hours left, Gendry was no nearer making a decision on how best to win Arya Stark than he had been in King’s Landing.

“Pondering your wedding day?” Tyrion asked with a knowing chuckle.

This was exactly why Gendry wanted to be alone. He hated having to reveal anything of himself at the best of times and this was certainly not the best of times.

Tyrion seemed to take Gendry’s silence as leave to continue, “Perhaps you are thinking on your wedding night then? This time tomorrow . . .”

Gendry wasn’t going to let Tyrion finish. Whatever happened tomorrow night was between Arya and him and he certainly didn’t wish to discuss it with Tyrion Lannister. 

“Have you anything of importance to say Tyrion? Otherwise go back to bed.”

“But I told you, I can’t sleep,” Tyrion said as he proceeded to fumble with his britches. The steaming stream of piss landed too damn close to Gendry’s boots and he took an irritated step to the side as Tyrion sighed in contented relief.

“I sympathise with your situation. Knowing you are to be married, but also knowing your bride is rather…reluctant.”

“You don’t know anything about my situation,” Gendry growled as Tyrion fumbled to re-tie the laces of his britches as quickly as possible, before his cock froze.

“I know more than you think. I was married to her sister you know. A long time ago and not very successfully I may add.”

“I know.” 

Everyone knew. One of the first things Daenerys had done as Queen was to declare that marriage annulled on the grounds of non consummation. For a few days Tyrion had been even more of a laughing-stock than usual. Gendry had thought nothing much of it at the time, but with hindsight he could see that the annulment was part of Daenerys’ wider plan for Lady Sansa. Gendry shook his head in disgust at himself. Could he have been any more naive?

“You walk a fine line my glorious bastard. A future beyond your wildest dreams awaits you, but a miss-step one way and or the other and you could lose it all.”

Gendry blew out a frustrated sigh. Short of telling Tyrion to ‘fuck off’ he suspected he wasn’t going to get rid of Tyrion quickly.

“And I suppose you intend to give me the benefit of your wisdom?”

“Well, I like you and I don’t want to see you fuck this up.”

“I don’t intend to fuck this up,” Gendry said tightly, dragging his eyes away from Winterfell to glare down at Tyrion. After so long as the best commander in Westeros, Gendry was not used to his martial abilities being questioned, but that was exactly what Tyrion was doing. Did he not realise Gendry could take Winterfell easily? 

“Oh, I don’t mean taking Winterfell,” Tyrion grinned, his mismatched eyes twinkling in the moonlight, “I know you could do that in your sleep. Seven hells, even I could take Winterfell with an army this size.”

Gendry said nothing. Some said it was Stannis’ mistakes that cost him the Battle of the Blackwater, but Stannis was no fool and those who were there knew it was Tyrion who won that battle. Not that Tyrion had ever received any thanks for it. Gendry had no doubt Tyrion could take Winterfell or any other damn castle he wanted, perhaps even the Red Keep, if the men would follow him. But there was the problem. Gendry knew that he embodied the qualities expected of a warrior; strength, size, ferocity in battle and those qualities won him respect – but Tyrion had none of that. It was a pity Tyrion was judged by his appearance rather than his abilities. Men looked at Gendry and saw a commander who could lead them to a glorious victory. When they looked at Tyrion they saw…not that.

“The way I see it,” Tyrion continued, “ Your problem lies in winning your lady wife without destroying everything she holds dear. Destroy her home, crush her people and that resentment will curdle your marriage from its beginning to its end.”

Tyrion’s ability to see through all the shit to the crux of any battle and create a plan that would win a decisive victory was what earned him Gendry’s respect. He would be a fool not to take Tyrion’s advice. Without Tyrion, they would all still be stuck on the wrong side of the Trident. 

Gritting his teeth, Gendry asked. “So what do you suggest?”

“It must be bloodless, for your lady will never forgive you if you spill her kinsman’s blood and it is too fucking cold for a siege. I can’t face standing around out here, freezing my balls off, for one more night.” To illustrate his point, Tyrion cupped his crotch with a gloved hand and sighed appreciatively. “Winterfell is always warm. Did you know?” 

“I know,” Gendry snapped. Of course he knew. Arya had told him. During their nights together she had told him about Winterfell. Even now, her descriptions burned just as vividly in his imagination. Tomorrow, Gods be good, he would see it all for himself. 

Tyrion chuckled. “If you know so much, then you’ll know why our dear Queen sent you here.”

“To win her battles for her,” Gendry growled. Seven hells, but Tyrion liked to talk. Why could the imp not simply give his advice on how to win Arya’s hand and leave? But Tyrion was obviously in the mood to hear the sound of his own voice.

“She could have sent Aegon if all she wanted was a battle won.”

Gendry narrowed his eyes and snorted, making his opinion of that quite clear.

Tyrion laughed, annoying Gendry even more.

“And do you know Jon Arryn’s dying words were about you?”

Now that caught Gendry’s interest. Tobho had eventually revealed the Hand of the King had paid for his apprenticeship. But his old master had no other information, such as why, so Gendry had assumed it was done to appease someone’s guilt at having a king’s bastard living in a shit hole like Flea Bottom; presumably his father’s. Of course Gendry was intrigued by any information relating to his, less than illustrious, beginnings.

“No, I didn’t know and I wonder how you do?”

“Ah, well . . .” Tyrion grinned, obviously enjoying himself, despite the biting cold, “the Hand of the King ought to know what his predecessors were up to.”

“Particularly if they both ended up dead.”

“Quite so,” Tyrion chuckled, warming to his theme. “Knowledge is power, mightier even than your famous war hammer. Once you are Lord of Winterfell you’ll do well to remember that.”

Gendry was in no mood for a lecture. He hadn’t even won Winterfell yet. He’d worry about holding it after he’d got it.

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, he said, “You were going to tell me Jon Arryn’s dying words.”

“Oh was I?”

Gendry couldn’t tell if Tyrion was teasing him or had genuinely forgotten.

“Yes.”

“The seed is strong.”

Gendry pondered this. Robert had numerous bastards. Sixteen as far as Gendry knew, but there could easily have been more. The seed was certainly plentiful, but strong? Most of them were dead and that hardly meant strong to Gendry. He had got his hopes up, thinking Tyrion might have had something personal, of relevance to Gendry himself, something that might make him more than just another one of Robert’s many no-name bastards. But no. ‘The seed is strong’ had as much personal relevance to him as ‘Winter is coming’. Letting his disappointment show, Gendry muttered,

“Robert’s seed was widely sown. Jon Arryn’s wasn’t specifically referring to me.”

It was Tyrion’s turn to snort. “Well he wasn’t talking about that mother's boy Edric was he? Have you seen yourself lately?”

Gendry automatically looked down, casting his eyes over his chest, the sword at his hip, his boots shin deep in snow and seeing nothing remarkable.

“You are your father’s very image come back to life, particularly when you start swinging that bloody war hammer and that is precisely why you are so dangerous. Which brings me back to why Daenerys sent you here.”

“Because I am the best Commander she has?”

Ignoring that slight to Aegon and Jaime, Tyrion continued, “Daenerys wanted rid of you. needed to send you as far away as possible and had to make sure you didn’t come back. Why do you think she gave Edric the Stormlands?”

“Apparently because he is less of a bastard than I am,” Gendry snarled. Being reminded of all Edric had been given still galled. Even with Winterfell within his grasp, the loss of the Stormlands gnawed at him, like a festering wound he suspected would never heal. 

Tyrion snorted dismissively, “No one except bastards themselves care about the degree of bastardy. You are either a bastard or you aren’t. Daenerys used Edric’s acknowledgement by Robert as an excuse. Open your eyes! A Game of Thrones is being played around you. If you don’t play you will only be played!”

Gendry would have liked for Tyrion to be wrong. He would have liked to think Daenerys hadn’t played him for a fool, but every word Tyrion said rang true and he’d never seen the sincerity on Daenerys’ face that he saw now in Tyrion’s mismatched eyes. 

“She gave Edric the Stormlands because he is no threat to her! Edric is his mother’s son, whereas you are your father’s. Look at yourself and look how far you have come. Do you think Daenerys could ever feel secure perched on her Iron Throne with you sitting in Storm’s End? Knowing the army would follow you through the seven hells and back? House Baratheon seized the throne from the Targaryens before and Daenerys is not about to risk that happening again.” 

Since that day in the throne room, Gendry had believed he’d lost the Stormlands because he was too much of a bastard. Instead he was too much of a threat. He could only wonder why he not seen it for himself.

“If you think Daenerys chose Edric because he is better than you in any way, then you are as much a fool as your father was.” 

The blow to his pride had blinded him to the obvious and it had taken Tyrion Lannister to point it out to him. Gendry should have realised it before, after all it had been mentioned to him more than once, in quiet places and in hushed tones, that the Iron Throne was his for the taking if he cared to seize it. But Gendry had firmly and sometimes forcefully, put a stop to those suggestions. To lead men in battle was one thing; to deal with the endless intrigue that was the life’s blood of the Red Keep was another matter entirely and one he would run as fast and as far from as he could. The Iron Throne held no interest for him. All he ever wanted was the Stormlands, but Tyrion was right. Why would Daenerys think he would stop there? His father hadn’t. 

“Almost of all of Westeros of conquered and you are coming to the end of your usefulness. Daenerys wanted you as far away as possible and there is nowhere further than the Wall. If the Freys or the Others killed you, do you think she would weep for you? She would breathe a sigh of relief!”

Gendry’s hand reached for and found the hilt of his sword. The leather bound steel was solid and reassuring in his hand, while the rest of Westeros seemed to have shifted beneath his feet. 

“So, if I return from the Wall, she intends to have me killed anyway?”

Tyrion grinned, a lopsided farce of a smile that pulled his scars and what was left of his nose in different directions. It was most disconcerting. 

“You have served her well, so killing you seems a bit harsh, even for the Dragon Queen,” Tyrion chuckled, “Daenerys prefers a more subtle approach and she doesn’t like martyrs. Besides, she needs you for a while longer, but make no mistake; she has a plan to keep you away from King’s Landing and the Iron Throne forever.”

“Which is?”

Tyrion grinned again and Gendry found himself grimacing. He wished the imp would stop smiling, but Tyrion seemed to be enjoying himself far too much to stop now.

“This wife Daenerys promised you . . . have you heard the rumours?”

“It depends on what rumours you are talking about,” Gendry said warily, wondering how much more went on in the Red Keep that he didn’t know. He had never been one for gossip and intrigue, but in light of all Tyrion was revealing to him now, Gendry suspected he had been beyond foolish not to pay more attention.

“The rumour that she was in Braavos all these years; living in the house of Black and White.”

Gendry was stunned into silence. He hadn’t heard that, had no idea . . . but it would explain why no one had seen or heard from Arya until her sudden reappearance in Winterfell. It would also explain why she vanished so completely all those years ago. No wonder his attempts to find her had been unsuccessful – he had been looking in the wrong place. He’d been searching the wrong damn continent. 

“So that either makes her an assassin’s whore…

“Arya’s no whore!” 

Gendry had Tyrion hoisted up by the front of his fur cloak, with his legs dangling in the air, before Tyrion had time to finish his sentence. Outrage and desperation to know more, sent blood pumping through Gendry’s veins. His face was level with Tyrion’s and, for a moment, Gendry thought the smaller man was going to faint from the shock of being lifted so high, so suddenly, but Tyrion quickly recovered his wits. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” Tyrion croaked with another unpleasant grin. “I was going to say . . . or an assassin herself. Like you, I suspect the later is more likely.”

An assassin? Arya was an assassin? Once again Gendry instinctively knew Tyrion was right. But how did Tyrion know this when Gendry himself had no idea?

Consumed by a wild, desperate, frustration, Gendry twisted his fists into Tyrion’s cloak, tightening the fur around Tyrion’s neck. The imp’s eyes bulged with alarm and his face turned a dark shade of purple.

“Who told you all this?” Gendry demanded, hauling Tyrion up higher and closer still until their noses would have been touching - if Tyrion had a nose.

Tyrion made a strangled, choking sound and batted uselessly at Gendry’s clenched fists with his stubby fingers. Realising Tyrion couldn’t speak to answer him; Gendry took a deep, calming breath and relaxed his grip slightly. Tyrion’s hands flew to his throat as he took a succession of hastily gulped breaths and gasped some incomprehensible words.

“What did you say?” Gendry asked impatiently.

“Jaqen H’ghar.”

Gendry wasn’t sure if Tyrion was still choking, but the spluttered name he offered, while foreign, was somehow familiar.

“Say it again.”

“Jaqen H’ghar,” Tyrion said more clearly this time, “A Lorathi who claims to be a member of the Guild of Faceless Men.”

It couldn’t be. 

“What does he look like?” Gendry demanded, slowly setting Tyrion down and back on his feet. 

Tyrion staggered in the snow and wrenched the neck of his cloak apart as he answered breathlessly, “Sly, dangerous, half his hair dyed red, and the other half white.”

Gods. It was. After all these years.

It had to be him; the criminal Arya had saved in the holdfast where Yoren died. Gendry hadn’t understood why Arya did it, even then. If she’d let the three criminals burn she would have saved Gendry a job later on. In order to save Brienne, Gendry had to drive a spear through that evil fucker Biter’s neck at the Crossroads Inn. 

Arya had saved Jaqen H’ghar’s life that night. Gendry dredged his memory for anything more. In Harrenhal when Gendry refused to help her with her foolhardy plan to free the Northmen, H’ghar had helped her do it; Gendry was sure of it. 

Was the Lorathi criminal really a Faceless Man? Had he helped Arya escape the Hound and taken her across the narrow sea with him? Seven hells, what else had that fucker done to her? Gendry would kill Jaqen H’ghar with his bare hands if he’d laid a finger on Arya.

Daenerys’ words came back to him, swimming in his head; “What if could give you your heart’s desire?” 

Daenerys hadn’t known Arya Stark was his heart’s desire . . . had she? 

Unless Jaqen H’ghar knew. . 

Old Lem Lemoncloak had known. Many times old Lem had cuffed him around the ear for inappropriate behaviour with a lady; like the time Gendry had tickled Arya until she’d rolled around the floor with him in Acorn Hall. That treasured memory had sustained him in his quest to find her; in his fevered imagination, when they were finally reunited, they would be rolling around a bed and he would be doing much more than tickling her.

He had thought he’d kept his infatuation well hidden, even then; believing his cause to be hopeless and out of shame at his being so far below Arya as to be under her boots. But had a stupid bastard boy really been able to hide what was in his heart? If Lem had known . . . and those Faceless Men were supposed to have extraordinary powers of observation. Shit. Gendry’s mind leapt from the Arya to the Lorathi’s re-appearance to Daenerys’ scheming like wildfire. They had to be linked; it was too much of a coincidence to be otherwise.

“And you’ve seen this Jaqen for yourself?”

Tyrion nodded, “Daenerys keeps him well hidden, but sometimes being small and insignificant has its uses. You’ve probably seen him too, but if he is one of the Guild, he can change his face at will. You could have walked past him a dozen times. He could have served you your meal and you would never know. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

If H’ghar could change his face, Gendry wouldn’t have known him but H’ghar would have known Gendry.

Clarity hit him like a hammer to his head. Daenerys knew exactly what his heart desired and she had used it to manipulate him to suit her own ends. Anger twisted low in his gut, but it was accompanied by something else, something stronger . . . hope?

To his intense irritation, Tyrion started laughing and proceeded to guffaw until he was bent double and had to rest his hands on his knees.

“What do you find so funny imp?”

“The expression on your face. You really thought Daenerys liked you, didn’t you?” 

Gendry failed to see why Tyrion found humour in his trust having been betrayed.

“Imagine the panic if Daenerys’ precious lords and ladies knew they had a Faceless Man in their midst,” Tyrion gasped between guffaws.

Gendry didn’t see what was amusing about a knife in the back, or worse. The memory of a man in Harrenhal who had his throat torn out by his dog, stole back into his mind. Arya had been delighted, for the man had hit her the day before. Gendry’s instincts had told him there was something odd about that death at the time, but he’d been too busy trying to survive himself to pay attention to the details of one more death amongst thousands. Now he could see that strange death reeked of the Faceless Men. Arya and Jaqen were involved in it, he was sure. What else had they plotted together? Seven hells, had he really walked around so long with his eyes half shut?

“So do you believe me now?” Tyrion asked, still chuckling to himself, “That your lady-wife-to-be is a Faceless . . . Man?” 

Man? Arya might dress like a boy, but she was no man. Gendry scowled furiously and that sent Tyrion off into another uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Tyrion was coming perilously close to being picked up again and tossed, head first, into the nearest bank of snow. 

“We all do what we have to do,” Gendry said coldly.

Perhaps sensing the danger, Tyrion coughed and tried to compose himself. “So your lady is deadly, but they also say she is beautiful. I hear she looks like her aunt; the one who so bewitched your father. Beautiful and deadly. An intoxicating combination don’t you think?”

Gendry grunted noncommittally, still trying to get his head around being played so thoroughly by Daenerys and Arya’s connection to the Guild of Faceless Men. She always was bloody thirsty and hell bent on revenge with that damn list of hers. What better way to get it than to join the most feared assassins in the world? It all made a terrible, awful, thrilling sense. He raised his eyes to Winterfell again. Fuck. Not only might Arya laugh at him. She might kill him too.

“Our Dragon Queen is counting on Arya Stark having the same effect on you that Lyanna Stark had on your father. Had your father wed the woman he wanted, would he have bothered to wrest the throne from House Targaryen? Or would he have stayed in Storm’s End, content with his lot and too busy fucking his beautiful wife to covet the Iron Throne?”

Despite everything he should have been thinking about, like how to pay Daenerys back, Gendry’s thoughts drifted to the possibility of his being able to stay in Winterfell contently fucking his own beautiful wife for the rest of his life. He realised in that moment he’d had enough of war. Nothing; his anger with Daenerys, his need to prove himself his to be a worthy heir to House Baratheon, the glory of battles still to be won - none of it mattered if he could stay here with Arya. 

“Our dear Queen hopes Lady Stark will keep you in Winterfell; that you’ll be too busy trying to tame your wild, assassin, bride to look south. Wed you to Arya Stark and Daenerys believes she can forget all about you and the threat you pose to the Iron Throne.”

Gendry had never considered himself a threat to the Iron Throne. Far from it. He had served the Dragon queen loyally and without question for five, long, hard years. But he had also served her blindly, ignorant of the web she was weaving around him. 

Yet, in manipulating him for her own ends, was Daenerys not giving him exactly what he wanted? Arya as his wife, a title and home well away from the Red Keep? 

Now his eyes had been opened, he could see that the further away he stayed from Daenerys Targaryen, the better it would be for both of them. Yes, that was what he would do. If he could win Arya and Winterfell he would be content with his lot and it would take a team of wild horses to drag him back to Red Keep. All he had to do was convince Arya it was as right for her as it was for him. All he had to do. Seven buggering hells, it would probably make taking the Twins seem easy.

“Much as it pains me to admit it. Daenerys is right,” Gendry said wearily, “I want a wife. I want to stay in the one place for more than a few days and I am sick of sleeping in a tent. I want a home with stone walls and a proper bed and, if the Gods are good, I'll have heirs. If I have my way, I’ll never darken Daenerys’ throne room again. All I have to do is win Arya Stark and the rest shall follow. You were going to give me the benefit of your wisdom, so let’s hear it . . . what do you suggest I do?”

Tyrion shrugged and looked up at him with those shrewd, mismatched eyes. “I suggest you do nothing and leave it to me.”

Gendry was about to scoff at Tyrion’s suggestion, but stopped himself. Had he not already conceded that the imp was a master of strategy and knew more about power, intrigue and scheming than Gendry ever would, or would ever want to know? 

A shrewd commander took advantage of every weapon at his disposal and the sharpest weapon Gendry had to fight tomorrow’s battle was Tyrion Lannister.

“All right. Let’s see if you are as good as you think you are. Win me Arya Stark and you shall have your heart’s desire in return.”

Tyrion made a grand show of laughing again, but Gendry wasn’t fooled. He let Tyrion guffaw and hold his sides with supposed laughter. Gendry watched the show with a smirk on his face. No mummer’s troop could wish for as dedicated a performer as Tyrion Lannister. Once Tyrion’s guffaws had died down to a hollow laugh, Gendry crossed his arms over his chest and smirked,

“You think I’m stupid Tyrion. Compared to you, perhaps I am, but I know men. I wouldn’t be the best commander in Westeros if I didn’t. I know what drives us and why we fight and struggle and why we keep going when it would be easier just to drown ourselves in drink and whores.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at Gendry’s earnest speech. “I am all for drowning myself in drink and whores! What better way to go?!” Tyrion exclaimed with a smile that never reached his eyes.

“You don’t fool me Tyrion Lannister. You want the same as I do; a wife, a home, sons, to die an old man in your own bed surrounded by people who care about you.”

To Gendry’s surprise, Tyrion dropped his head and bowed to him. When he straightened up, all pretence at amusement was gone. Tyrion’s reply was finally serious and not a little sad. “You have me Ser. You are, alas, correct and are more astute than I gave you credit for. However, my heart’s desire is not as easily obtained as yours. Can you read?”

Gendry thought it a strange question, but answered truthfully – “No.”

“Yet if I tell you women will judge the content of a book by its size and the prettiness of its cover, you will understand what I mean?”

“Not all women are like that Tyrion.”

Tyrion gave a wistful shrug and said, “But those who aren’t are few and far between. I’ve only ever met one . . . and that was a long time ago.”

“You should have married her.”

“I did.”

Seeing Gendry’s surprise, Tyrion explained, “My father, may he suffer endless torture in every one of the seven hells, thought she was not good enough for a Lannister. Even one as loathed as I was. So he had her killed.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes skyward as if beseeching something up there for strength to continue. He took a deep breath and blew it out before looking back at Gendry.

“I’ll not bore you with the details, but I had my chance and I lost her.”

With a final shake of his head, Tyrion reinstated his false smile, “Now I stick to drinking and whoring and very well it suits me too. Reward me with wine and wenches and I’ll consider it fair payment for aiding your marriage to your lady.”

“We shall talk about this again when I’m wed,” Gendry said, reluctant to let the matter go so easily. When he wanted something, he strove towards it and would not relent until he achieved his goal. So he could not understand why Tyrion had given up when it was obviously so important to him. But that was a puzzle and a discussion for another day.

Tyrion shrugged and turned and started to plod through the snow, back to camp. Hearing no heavy footsteps behind him, he turned back to see Gendry’s black figure still gazing at a moon washed Winterfell.

“Get some sleep!” Tyrion called out, “You’ll perform better tomorrow night if you’re well rested.”

Tyrion had no time to duck before a snowball came hurtling towards him, hitting him square in the face and sending ice exploding into his cloak and down his neck. He was smart enough to know when a battle could not be won. Trying to either fight or outrun this opponent was useless, so he took a deep breath, flung his arms wide and threw himself backwards into the snow.

Gendry was horrified when Tyrion went down like a felled tree. What the fuck had he done? Only knocked someone no bigger than a child out cold. What a stupid, cowardly thing to do and, never mind being knocked out cold, Tyrion would freeze if Gendry didn’t get him back to the warmth of a fire and quickly. 

Sprinting through the snow, Gendry fell to his knees beside Tyrion.

“Gods, you better not die on me Tyrion,” he muttered. Grabbing Tyrion’s cloak, Gendry lifted him from the snow and held Tyrion in his arms. Tyrion’s head rolled lifelessly back. That only reinforced Gendry’s fear that he had done some permanent damage. Dwarfs were made differently than big folk and perhaps they had thinner skulls, Gendry thought with a rising sense of dread. 

“You live through this brother and we’ll find you another wife if we have to search the whole of Westeros together,” Gendry swore under his breath, only for a fistful of snow to collide with the centre of his face.

Gendry spluttered and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the snow in his eyes, hair and filling his nose.

“What happened?” Tyrion asked, blinking his eyes and looking around innocently. Seeing Gendry covered in snow, he suppressed a chuckle and instead said disingenuously, “Oh dear, that stuff must have stuck to my glove when I fell in the snow.”

Gendry couldn’t tell whether Tyrion was japing with him or not, leaving him in a quandary as to whether he should rage at Tyrion or apologise. 

“Nothing happened that either of us would want to remember,” Gendry muttered as he rose to his knees, still cradling Tyrion in his arms.

“You can put me down now. Really, I think I’m fine.”

“Until you get me Arya Stark, I’m taking no more chances with you . . . brother.”

“Brother?” Tyrion echoed, raising his eyebrows. Although Tyrion had heard Gendry say it, he had assumed it had been said in the heat of the moment and that Gendry would rather forget the word had ever passed his lips.

“You were married to my-soon-to-be-wife’s sister.” 

Tyrion groaned. That was something he would rather not be reminded of.

“ . . . And I like you a lot better than I like Edric.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Now, that’s not much of a compliment is it?”

When Gendry only grinned, Tyrion said, “Well, I trust you more than Jaime, so brothers it is.”

Gendry walked on for a while in silence. He had to admit, he was relieved that Tyrion was taking responsibility for events tomorrow. Tyrion, in turn, seemed rather pleased he didn’t have to trudge back through the knee high snow. But as the red glow of the camp’s fires swung into view, Tyrion’s reputation suddenly seemed much more important to him than keeping his britches dry.

“You are going to put me down before anyone sees us like this aren’t you?”

Gendry chuckled, “Perhaps.” It might be quite fun having a brother after all.


	4. Beautiful & Deadly

Although spring was on the way, the days were still short and Gendry’s army was ready to march on Winterfell long before dawn finally broke over the horizon.

He wore his full armour, except the plate gauntlets. They were hellish to get on and off and clumsy for doing anything other than swinging a hammer. Presenting his precious scrolls to Arya would need more delicacy than plate gauntlets afforded him, so he settled for boiled leather, hoping to the seven hells there wasn’t going to be any hand to hand combat today.

Even his horse, Smith, was skittish this morning, no doubt sensing Gendry’s own tension. He’d thankfully managed a few hours sleep after seeing Tyrion back to his tent which had helped last night’s apprehension solidify into determination and, if he was being honest, excitement. The day was cold and sharp, as was the steel arrayed around him and strapped to Smith's saddle. The thrill of a winnable battle pumped through his veins, heightening all his senses.

The day was here, the hour was set and Lady Arya Stark was finally going to be his.

Gendry positioned himself at the head of his army and waited for his new brother. Remembering last night’s escapade brought a smile to Gendry’s lips. The seed did indeed feel strong in him today. He felt as if he could single-handedly take on every army in Westeros and still emerge victorious. A few more hours and he would be wed, a few hours after that and he would be gently laying his new wife down on their featherbed. The smile on his face stretched into a grin.

As Tyrion trotted his pony over, Gendry saw the imp hadn’t bothered to don his own armour. Tyrion had, at least, made some concession to his safety by wearing a chain mail vest under his pristine Lannister surcoat. The bright colours and, of course the nature of his House, would make him an easy target if there was a battle.

“Confident aren’t you?” Gendry asked after giving Tyrion an assessing look up and down.

“Yes, I am and I see you aren’t. Don’t worry brother. I have this well in hand, but can you at least take off your helmet?”

“No.”

“The lady should get a good look at her future husband. While I’m sure no one has ever mentioned this to you before - you’re not unattractive.”

When Gendry still make any attempt to remove his helmet, Tyrion sighed, “This might go easier if Lady Arya were to see how . . . _not ugly_ you are.”

Tyrion could only roll his eyes in despair when Gendry ignored his plea and dropped his visor firmly into position so that not even his eyes were visible.

Gendry didn’t expect Arya would recognise him from his eyes alone. He hoped she might remember him that clearly, but he definitely didn’t expect it. All the same, he wasn’t taking any chances. He’d have her agreement to wed him before he risked everything by revealing who he really was. Or who he had been. He didn’t feel like much the boy who had proudly apprenticed for Tobho Mott anymore.

Gendry gave the signal and they began their advance to the slow beating of drums. Over the years he’d come to favour an accompaniment of drums as he rode into battle. Aegon accused him of playing a mummer’s game, but Gendry was sure the Queen’s favourite was just annoyed he hadn’t thought of it first, because drums scared the enemy shitless.

“The drums are a nice touch,” Tyrion commented as they walked their horses together; or rather Gendry’s massive destrier walked while Tyrion had to urge his pony into a trot to keep up.

Gendry merely grunted an acknowledgement. Of course, Tyrion hadn’t heard the drums yet as they hadn’t been used at the Twins. That battle was fought and won by stealth not simply force. Three hundred men had sneaked across the ice covering the Trident at night and attacked in the dark, from below. The fucking Freys hadn’t known what hit them until it was too damn late.

The idea itself wasn’t original, but no commander had been willing to risk his army on the ice before. The river flowed quickly at the Twins, where it was forced through the narrow channel of the Green Fork and the thickness of ice over fast flowing water was always uncertain. If the ice gave way, hundreds of men would perish instantly in the freezing water. Although no one had ever been so foolish to try it at the Twins before, Gendry had witnessed similar disasters over the long, hard winter. He’d learned to his cost that ice could be just as unpredictable and just as deadly as fire.

It had been Tyrion’s idea to build ladders, bind them together and lay them end to end across the ice, under the bridge. In the darkest part of the night, three hundred of the lightest men were roped together and bravely crawled across. It had been a slow process, but with the load spread, the ice held and the Frey lookouts on the bridge hadn’t seen a thing. Once on the thicker ice near the far bank, the ladders had been used to scale the northern end of the bridge.

Gendry and the rest of his army had been harrying the Freys for days on the southern bank and, as expected, the Freys had moved all their men to the southern castle to defend it. For the first time in six hundred years, the Freys had faced a full assault on one castle and a simultaneous, surprise attack on the other. It had been a master stroke and had left the Freys in panicked disarray. By noon that same day, the Twins no longer belonged to the Freys.

Those still alive had been given the chance to swear fealty to Daenerys and the Iron Throne. All except old Walder Frey of course; honour demanded his head in retribution for Robb Stark’s.

“Where is our Walder?” Tyrion asked, his thoughts having obviously taken the same turn as Gendry’s.

“Riding on an ass,” Gendry replied brightly, nodding behind them.

Tyrion turned around to see the massive oak chair of the Lord of the Crossing roped to, and swaying unsteadily from, the aforesaid ass. The back of the chair was ornately carved to represent the two castles of the Twins and the tower in the middle. Walder’s severed head had been dipped in tar and impaled upon the middle tower. To make sure Walder’s head didn’t roll off, the pinnacle of the tower was protruding from one of his eyes sockets. The ass, the chair and the impaled head, made for a gruesome, yet enormously gratifying sight. Gendry hoped Arya would appreciate the gift.

“I like it,” Tyrion said. “You really are rather good at these little intimidating touches; the drums, the dramatic way you brandish your father’s war hammer, old Walder serving as a warning to all who stand before you. As psychological warfare goes, I'm very impressed.”

“What the fuck are you talking about Tyrion?”

“Oh, never mind. It’s a new concept. I’ll explain later. In the meantime, just keep doing what you do best; look intimidating, keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking.”

Gendry grunted his agreement. That arrangement suited him perfectly.

 

-o-

 

Arya and Meera had been on the battlements since before first light. They’d witnessed their enemies’ first movements in the dark and the extinguishing of hundreds of fires, one after another, as the great army stirred itself slowly and purposefully into life.

“How many men do you think?” Meera asked as the first grey light of dawn illuminated the huge gathering of men and horses on and around the kingsroad.

“Thousands,” Arya replied wearily. “We’ll get a better idea when they start to advance towards us.” Meera would ask her for another estimate shortly and no doubt keep asking as the black mass uncoiled and drew closer. But Arya knew it didn’t matter how many thousands of men there were; there were enough to encircle Winterfell and many, many more than they could hope to fight.

“Look!” Meera called out, pointing and drawing the attention of everyone on the battlements, “They’re unfurling their banners. Can anyone see the sigils?”

There was a dreadful, pregnant pause, before the first shout of ‘Targaryen!’ went up from the boy with the sharpest eyes. The call seemed to be taken up all around them as multiple cries of ‘Targaryen’ confirmed the House they faced.

Arya peered into the distance and, sure enough, saw only Targaryen banners. Even that in itself was highly unusual, as so great an army would normally have been made up numerous bannermen from lesser houses.

“All Targaryen,” Arya murmured under her breath in disbelief. It proved the strength of House Targaryen if they could raise thousands of men on their own.

“But no Dragon Queen?" Meera wondered aloud. "If she was here, surely she would have brought her dragons with her?”

The two women simultaneously raised their eyes to the sky, but the pale, frosty blue remained mercifully empty.

“Keep a look out for Dragons!” Arya ordered as fear coiled in her belly. Every person on the battlements searched the sky. A Targaryen army was bad enough, but if there were dragons, they would all burn. Arya grabbed the nearest child and, bending down to his height, issued her orders.

“Gather twenty children and collect every bucket you can find. Form a chain from the springs in the Godswood to the central Keep. I need you to be ready put out a fire. Can you do that for me?” she asked, ruffling the boy’s hair. He nodded solemnly before running off at full pelt. The boy was no more than five, Arya thought guiltily as she watched his skinny legs and bare feet pound over Winterfell stone. Never before had she felt more acutely that she was sending a boy to do a man’s work.

Just when Arya thought things could not get any worse, the slow, steady beat of drums began to drift across the empty fields below, destroying the fragile peace of the morning. All around her, women and boys looked anxiously at one another and Arya felt their already shaky confidence drop to their boots. Arya couldn’t blame them, the pounding of the drums felt like a warning, a threat and a herald of doom all rolled into one.

Giving herself a shake, she shouted confidently, “Ignore their tricks. They will not scare the people of the North so easily!”

An unsteady chorus of “Aye!” rose up from the mouths of the women and boys, only to be drowned out by the relentless boom of the approaching drums. The lack of numbers, experience and courage she heard in that shaky battle cry worried her more than Targaryen drums ever could.

Arya turned her attention back to the scene unfolding below, “House Targaryen must have already claimed the rest of Westeros,” she said angrily, “. . . and they think we’re next.” Resting the palms of her hands flat against the stone, she leaned over the battlements. With the speed at which they were advancing, the Targaryen army would be within range of their longbows shortly. Arya had bows and she had arrows, but too few people strong enough to draw back the longbow strings. Looking at the women and the boys standing on blocks of wood along the battlements who were prepared to try, Arya once again cursed her lack of foresight.

“If not Queen Daenerys, perhaps it is Aegon Targaryen who leads them?” Meera wondered aloud, “I hear he is unmarried and quite handsome.” Meera tried to sound hopeful for the sake of her friend, but she didn’t have the heart for it and her words only sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

A handsome husband was the least of Arya’s worries at the moment.

“How did they cross the Trident?” Arya asked as she paced back and forwards. “The Twins cannot be taken, so they must have done a deal with the Freys.” Disgust and rage constricted Arya’s throat at having to speak the name of the hated House that murdered Robb and all those sons of the North. She spat over the battlements in disgust. “I’ll never make an alliance with anyone who deals with Walder Frey.”

“It seems you have no choice,” Meera said quietly, “But I wonder how they got through the Neck? My father would never negotiate with anyone who deals with the Freys either.”

They both knew what that meant. If Lord Reed wouldn’t allow safe passage, a battle would have ensued as there was no way across the causeway or through the Neck without House Reed's consent or defeat. Arya took Meera’s hand and curled her fingers around her friend’s in a gesture of solidarity.

Meera looked down at their entwined hands and smiled. It was the first time Arya had reached out to her and Meera knew how hard that must have been for her friend.

“Thank you Arya. I shall not give up hope until I know for certain what happened.”

Meera tried not to worry, but Bran had never mentioned this. Why had he wasted his last breath on broken stags that never appeared when House Reed was in peril? Suddenly Meera felt much less sure of everything than she had been. An alliance with House Targaryen would be doomed if it was tainted by Targaryen dealings with the Freys and possibly even the massacre of House Reed. How could she expect Arya to marry into that? What if a Frey lord was down there and what if he had been promised Arya’s hand in exchange for safe crossing? A similar circumstance had ultimately led to Robb’s death and the Freys had always eyed Winterfell with resentment and jealous greed.

Robb wouldn’t wed a Frey and if Arya wouldn’t either . . . then they were all doomed. Blood seemed to drain from Meera’s head and she had to reach one shaking hand out to rest it on one of the crenulations. Fortunately Arya still held her other hand; otherwise Meera might have fallen to her knees in despair.

“We don’t know what happened,” Arya said firmly, determined to reassure Meera who had been so been so strong and so certain everything would work out until now. “There is no point in thinking the worst until we know.”

“But you said yourself, the Twins cannot be taken. A bargain must have been reached in exchange for safe crossing. _Maybe even a bargain for you_ ,” Meera whispered so softly that only Arya could hear.

Arya straightened her back and stubbornly set her jaw. “We stick to our plan. I never expected to actually like the marriage did I? So he might be a Frey. But is that any worse than an Ironborn, or even that Bolton bastard? We’ve agreed. I will do whatever I have to do in order to save Winterfell and my people,” Arya said robustly, adding a defiant, “and there is always the Gift of Death.”

“Oh Arya, I’m so sorry,” Meera said, taking both of Arya’s hands in hers. She regretting ever mentioning the possibilities of alliances and marriages, for it had only raised both of their hopes that this awful situation might end well.

“What have you got to be sorry for?” Arya asked, somehow making it sound like an accusation rather than the apology she’d intended. She gave Meera’s hand another hard squeeze, hoping it conveyed the regret she felt. “None of this is your fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for sending everything we had to the Wall. Now stand up straight. We represent House Reed and House Stark and we will meet this Targaryen army as our fathers would expect us to.” Arya wished she felt even half as confident as she was trying to appear. Despite her brave words, she knew her father would have expected the Targaryens to be greeted not only with dignity but also with strength. Her lack of it only served to reinforce her failure as a Stark.

Meera was not the least bit reassured. She could not understand what had happened. Bran had said there would be a stag and a marriage for Arya and then a babe, all of which would return Winterfell to glory . . . but it was beginning to seem as if Bran had been wrong about many things. It seemed to Meera as if the beacons of hope that had been guiding her; the stag, the marriage and the babe were flickering and that they were about to be extinguished, along with her hope.

“Lannister!” yelled the same eagled eyed boy who had first spied the Targaryen banners.

“Where?” Arya demanded, as both she and Meera leaned over the crenulations for a better look.

“There!” The boy pointed to two men on horseback at the head of the army.

At first Arya could only see two indistinct shapes, one larger and one smaller, but as they grew closer, she could see the smaller rider wore Lannister colours.

“What is the sigil of the knight beside the Lannister?” Arya asked the boy, wondering if this was the famous, handsome Aegon Targaryen.

“There is none.”

“Are you sure?” Arya asked sharply, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment and not wishing to scold the child but, at the same time, unwilling to believe what he said. In a battle, everyone wore colours. Only by your sigil were you marked as friend or foe.

“I am sure. He wears only unadorned armour and the barding his horse wears is also of plain steel. But the Lannister beside him is only a child.”

“That cannot be a child,” Meera gasped, “No one would stoop so low as to bring a child into battle.”

Arya looked at the eager boy standing beside her and grimaced. In her desperation, was that not exactly what she was doing?

“Perhaps it is Tyrion Lannister?” Meera wondered hopefully, “I remember hearing that he always travelled with a sellsword to act as his champion. I forget the name, but he was well rewarded for it. I think the sellsword ended up a Ser or a lord himself. And Tyrion is married to your sister.”

Unbelievable as it seemed, perhaps Sansa had sent Tyrion to their aid? Arya did not want to get her hopes up, or anyone else’s.

“Tyrion Lannister and his sellsword at the head of a Targaryen army?” Arya muttered, shaking her head. “What in seven hells does that mean?”

“I think we’re about to find out,” Meera whispered, for the larger of the two men had raised his hand. With an impressive efficiency, the rows and rows of knights and foot soldiers immediately came to a halt and the drums mercifully stopped their hellish beat.

A brief conversation took place between the two men below, before the smaller one shouted up at the battlements, “We wish to discuss the terms of Winterfell's surrender!”

Even after all these years, Arya immediately recognised Tyrion Lannister’s voice. But he demanded surrender, not offered aid. Before Arya could reply, Meera was on her tiptoes, leaning over the battlements and yelling back, “Name your terms!”

After another brief conversation between the two men, Tyrion shouted up at them again, “We will only negotiate with Lady Arya Stark herself. Send her out so we may negotiate face to face. We guarantee her safe passage, of course.”

Arya had already started for the stairs when Meera grabbed her arm, “Wait and I’ll come with you.”

Arya looked down at Meera’s hand disdainfully and shrugged it off. “No. I got us into this mess and it’s up to me to get us out. Stay here and keep everyone as safe as you can.”

“No!” Meera said, forcefully grabbing Arya’s arm again, “I am coming with you. Two heads are better than one, particularly when one of those heads is as hot-headed as yours.”

“Do what you like, but stop touching me.” Arya snapped and set off down the stairs, taking them two at a time and at a pace that Meera, with her far shorter legs, could not hope to match.

Blowing out a frustrated huff, Meera gathered up her skirts and set off after Arya. Why would Arya not accept help? Her stubborn, pig-headed belief that she could do everything herself was what had got them into this predicament in the first place.

 

By the time Meera reached the bottom of the winding stairs and hurried into the bailey yard, Arya had already given the order to raise the portcullis and lower the drawbridge. The ancient cogs and ropes as thick as a man’s thigh, screeched and groaned in protest as the drawbridge inched down.

A dozen of the strongest women were needed on each rope to take the strain. Arya heard a small child strapped to his mother’s back whimper pathetically as she shook with the strain of easing the massive wooden drawbridge down; while up on the battlements, boys dressed as men stood on wooden blocks and prayed to the Old Gods to save them. Feeling the weight of responsibility for every one of them as never before, Arya steeled herself for whatever was to come. She would do anything to save these people, her people. Anything.

Arya did not wait for Meera or even for the drawbridge to thump onto the ground before she started forward. Striding up the wooden wall faster than it was being lowered, she reached the end of the drawbridge while it still hung a dozen feet above the frozen earth. Bracing her right foot against the edge, she stood impassively above her would-be-conquerors, riding Winterfell’s ancient drawbridge down to meet her enemy. Her father’s blood and the blood of the First Men pounded in her veins and Arya intended to leave Tyrion Lannister and his sellsword in no doubt that she was high above them in every way.

 

-o-

 

Gendry had never seen anything as magnificent before in all his life. From the first moment he laid eyes on Arya Stark again, he knew he was lost. He would have sold his soul to the Stranger to have her.

Not even in his most fevered imaginings had she ever been as beautiful or as entirely captivating as this. He had dreat of strong arms and welcoming lips, but dressed in boy’s clothing and with short, unkempt hair; the way he had last seen her, only grown into a woman. The reality was a hundred times, no, a thousand times better.

With dark hair whipping around her face and her fur cloak billowing out behind, Gendry imagined this was how Queen Nymeria must have looked like as she stood on the prow of her ship, leading her army of ten thousand across the narrow sea. Arya was every inch the warrior Queen of his dreams and more and, by tonight, she would be his. He had Queen Daenerys’ proclamation to prove it. Unable to peel his eyes from Arya, he fumbled to unfasten the leather pouch holding his precious scrolls.

“God’s teeth but she is magnificent.” Tyrion gasped, quick and eloquent as ever and giving voice to Gendry’s thoughts.

“And I’m fucked,” Gendry muttered, leaning out of his saddle and thrusting the leather pouch at Tyrion, all the while never talking his eyes from Arya.

“What did you say?” Tyrion asked as he tried to grab the pouch Gendry haphazardly threw his way.

“She is both as beautiful and as deadly as you warned,” Gendry said instead as his blood thundered in his ears and his heart hammered against his ribs. He might as well be dead if he couldn’t have her.

“You are not afraid are you?” Tyrion gasped in mock horror.

“No, of course not,” Gendry ground out, before thinking better of it. The time for lies had passed, “Aye, maybe a little.”

Fuck, but he hadn’t been this nervous in his life before. Thank the Gods he had not worn his armoured gauntlets. The banded plates would have been clanking together and his hands never shook.

“So the mighty Commander is scared of the she-wolf,” Tyrion chuckled, far too loudly for Gendry’s liking. Any louder and Arya would hear the bloody dwarf. Seven buggering hells, some of the knights arranged behind them probably had.

Gendry’s voice was already muffled by his helmet and he kept it lower still as he hissed at Tyrion, “There’s something I haven’t told you. I met her before, years ago and everything _. . . every . . . damn . . . thing . . ._ that I have done since, has been to make her mine. So don’t fuck this up Tyrion. Read those fancy words and get me my lady.”

If they had shot up any higher, Tyrion’s eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair for ever.

“And you didn’t think to tell me all this last night?”

Gendry straighten in his saddle and kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, “Here she comes. Don’t fuck this up brother . . . please.”

-o-

 

Arya leapt gracefully from the drawbridge moments before it thudded to the ground. While it bounced with the impact, she was already striding towards them, her shoulders proudly squared, her head held high and defiant, her hips rolling seductively with every long, elegant step.

Arya stopped ten feet away from Tyrion and gave him a deep curtsey, as her mother had tried to teach her to do all those years ago. All the while Arya was assessing her opponent, as the Faceless Men had taught her to do so much more recently.

She kept her gaze cool and disinterested as she considered Tyrion and his sellsword. They had no way of knowing they were dealing with someone who had once belonged to the Guild and she would use that to her advantage. It suited her to let them think they were dealing with some helpless young lady.

The sellsword she dismissed immediately as being merely a mercenary, albeit an impressive example of that despicable breed. He would do nothing without Tyrion’s orders. But Tyrion Lannister was another matter entirely.

Arya would hardly have believed it possible, but the imp had grown even uglier since she had last seen him. Most of his nose was gone, leaving the centre of his face a mass of puckered scar tissue. With his mismatched eyes and a beard that was at least five different colours, he looked like a child’s imagining of a bogeyman. Arya knew she had to look beyond that distasteful exterior, for she was dealing with the cleverest man in Westeros and needed to keep all of her wits about her.

“Lord Lannister, or should I say . . . Good-Brother?”

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion return the greeting, bowing low in the saddle and adding an elegant flourish with his free arm. “Alas I am no longer your Good-Brother; my marriage to your sister has recently been annulled by the Dragon Queen.”

Arya’s throat constricted with apprehension. So there would be no help from Tyrion, but that disappointment paled into insignificance compared to Arya’s concern for her sister. What had happened to Sansa? Was she even alive?”

“May I ask on what grounds the marriage was annulled?” Arya asked, keeping her tone calm, despite feeling anything but inside.

Tyrion blushed warmly as he muttered, “Non-consummation.” In that moment Arya actually felt some sympathy for the half man, along with her overwhelming feeling of relief for Sansa.

“I am . . . sorry to hear it.” Arya said, hoping she sounded sincere. It wouldn’t do to antagonise Tyrion, at least not yet. “Is my sister well?”

“Never better. In fact I have a missive from her here,” Tyrion said brightly, obviously relieved to be able to move on from that previous, humiliating subject. He dug in a pouch, produced a scroll of parchment sealed with red wax and held it out to Arya with stumpy fingers.

She had to walk towards him to take it, ignoring the sellsword and his massive, snorting, horse on the way.

Arya’s eyes were level with Tyrion’s as he handed her the scroll and his clever, mismatched eyes twinkled as he asked, “Were you expecting company?” He nodded towards Winterfell and when Arya followed his gaze, she saw little Meera hurrying down the drawbridge. Why was the silly girl putting her life in danger when Arya had told her to stay up on the battlements? With a sigh, Arya realised she had no way of making Meera obey her orders, short of tying her up.

“Lady Meera Reed is nothing if not determined,” Arya said tightly.

“So it would seem,” Tyrion chuckled as Meera lifted her skirts above her ankles and proceeded to run through the snow towards them.

Meera was out of breath by the time she reached them, ignoring Arya’s scowl and the sellsword, she curtseyed to Tyrion.

“Lady Reed,” Tyrion returned the greeting with another one of his lavish bows.

“How did you cross the Trident and pass through the Neck?” Meera asked breathlessly as she looked up at Tyrion.

Tyrion’s scarred face broke into a grin as he chuckled, “Determined and demanding I see Milady.”

Meera pursed her lips and looked to Arya for support as she demanded again of Tyrion, “What bargain did you strike with the Freys?”

Tyrion seemed to find Meera’s question amusing and he seemed to be suppressing laughter as he looked up at his sellsword and said, “Let’s ask old Walder himself, shall we?”

Arya’s heart leapt into her mouth. Tyrion had brought Walder Frey with him? She clenched her fists, feeling the reassuring presence of the steel hidden in her sleeves press against her forearms. Maybe this was how it was supposed to end; she would kill Walder Frey here, in front of Winterfell to avenge Robb and the North. The sellsword would probably do for her, but not before she had given the Gift of Death to Walder and Tyrion. Arya hoped Meera had the presence of mind to run.

Needing both hands free, Arya handed the scroll to Meera as the sellsword motioned to someone behind him. Arya planted her feet and, for the first time, focused her attention on the huge sellsword. He would be fast, but she had no doubt he was not as fast as she was. His focus would be on protecting Tyrion while hers was on killing Walder Frey. Perhaps she’d be better using her second knife on the sellsword instead of Tyrion. If she could take his lapdog out, Tyrion would be an easy kill.

While waiting for Robb’s murderer to appear, Arya let her gaze roam over the sellsword. He seemed to be assessing her too, for she felt his eyes on her from behind the slatted visor. The boy on the battlements had been right; no sigil or marking anywhere. The sellsword’s armour was impressive and would have been very expensive when new; no doubt paid for with Lannister gold, but Arya noticed it was dented in places; notably on the left flank. The dented armour hadn’t rusted yet, so perhaps it had been a recently blow and there might be a weakness there she could exploit. Also, he wore leather gloves instead of armoured gauntlets, but alas she could see no other weaknesses. Arya knew the training and strength that was required to fight in armour like that. He would be immensely strong under all that weight and fast as a snake without it. To her dismay, even the way the sellsword sat upon his horse conveyed the supreme arrogance that only the best warriors possessed - like Jaqen. Arya quickly suppressed that thought. It would do her no good to compare this sellsword to the man who was responsible for her total humiliation and her fleeing the Guild.

“I have another question,” Meera blurted out. This time she addressed the sellsword rather than Tyrion. “What happened to your helmet?”

Arya’s eyes rose to consider the man’s helmet. It had looked rather unremarkable to her and, if she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t scrutinised it too closely as the thought of meeting the sellsword’s eyes, even from behind his visor, left her feeling strangely unsettled. But now Meera had mentioned it, there were two jagged protrusions jutting out from the top of his helmet. They weren’t bull horns though and it was just as well, because if they had been, that would have led her thoughts down another uncomfortable path, to another, best forgotten man; well a bull headed boy. But they definitely weren’t bull horns, so mercifully she didn’t have to think about that. Or him.

The sellsword seemed reluctant to answer and, after a rather awkward silence, Tyrion answered for him. “He decided he didn’t like what he'd stuck on top of his helmet so he broke them off.”

“And what were they?” Meera pressed.

With a seemingly unhappy sideways look at his sellsword, Tyrion answered warily, “Antlers.”

“Gods be good,” Meera murmured under her breath, “The stag with the broken antlers.”

Arya had no idea what Meera was talking about and had more important things on her mind, like killing Walder Frey. Just at that moment, Tyrion called out, “May I present to you . . . Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing.”

With a flourish, Tyrion pointed to an ass bearing a swaying load that wasn’t Walder Frey. As they all turned to see, Meera gasped, “That’s the chair of the Lord of the Crossing.”

“And Walder Frey’s head.” The sellsword had finally spoken. His voice was deep and commanding and Arya found herself looking up at him, rather than the swaying chair with the tarred head. Her opponent's eyes seemed to bore into her and she felt an unexpected shiver of excitement run down her spine; before long she would cross swords with this man, she was sure of it.

“Who took his head?” Arya demanded.

“I did." The pride in his voice was unmistakable. "In revenge for your brother’s murder. I also took the Twins . . . and the chair,” he added with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

This sellsword had taken the Twins? Surely he lied? No one had managed to take the twins in six hundred years, much less a lowly sellsword. And since when did sellswords care about avenging Robb Stark? All they cared about was coin . . . unless this knight wasn’t a sellsword after all.

“Who are you Ser? Tell me in order that I may properly express my gratitude, that of my House and the gratitude of the North for your avenging my brother’s death.”

Arya felt, rather than saw the knight’s eyes flick to Tyrion, who gave a little shrug. Before Arya knew what to make of that, the knight’s eyes were on her again.

“I’m just a no-name bastard and don’t worry Milady, you’ll have the opportunity to express your gratitude soon enough.”

Arya didn’t need to be able to see his face to hear the smirk in his voice. She decided that, whether he had taken Walder Frey's head or not, that no-name bastard needed to put firmly in his place at the earliest opportunity.

Tyrion cleared his voice, seemingly to draw her attention away from the knight. “Perhaps matters would be . . . ahem, _clearer_ if you would read the scroll Lady Stark.”

Trying her best to ignore the smirking no-name-bastard-sellsword-knight, Arya turned her attention back to Sansa’s scroll. She nearly missed the glare that Tyrion gave the knight and she would have sworn that, in response, the no-name bastard was grinning broadly behind his visor.

Meera nudged her elbow, providing Arya with a welcome distraction from Tyrion and the arrogant, grinning, bastard.

“What is this?” Meera asked, turning the scroll over in her hands.

“It’s from Sansa apparently.”

“But it’s sealed with the Highgarden rose,” Meera murmured, running her forefinger over the sigil of House Tyrell.

“Open it and all will become clear,” Tyrion urged.

Meera split the wax seal with her thumbnail and started to read . . .

 

_I, Lady Sansa Stark, eldest surviving child of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, heir to Winterfell and House Stark, hereby renounce for all time coming my succession to and any claim I, or my heirs or successors may have on Winterfell or House Stark._

_I further declare these presents to be irrevocable and that they are freely given._

“It’s dated, witnessed and signed by Sansa Stark,” Meera said, looking up at Arya, unable to keep herself from smiling and wondering if Arya would appreciate hearing Meera say, ‘I told you so.’ Everything was beginning to fall into place quite nicely. She would have loved to have been able to tell Bran that he was right.

“Let me see,” Arya muttered, grabbing the parchment from Meera’s hands. Sure enough, she recognised Sansa’s feminine, looping script, even though it had been years since she had seen it.  Arya felt another thread of hope slip through her fingers. Meera had been right; Sansa wanted nothing to do with Winterfell. Winterfell and House Stark were now Arya’s responsibility and hers alone.

“I believe there is more,” Tyrion said softly. “I saw your sister take the opportunity to write something more on the reverse.”

Arya whipped the parchment over and, sure enough, there was more. It was written in the same looping hand, although much smaller and in the middle of the page, where it would not have been visible once the parchment was rolled and sealed.

This time is was Arya who read aloud,

 

_Dearest Sister,_

_I hope this finds you safe and well. I am truly happier than I ever been, for I am recently wed to Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden and our first babe is due in the spring. Queen Daenerys arranged the match for us and I am sure she has a most excellent match in mind for you too . . ._

Arya had to stop there and lifted her eyes from the parchment to glare at Tyrion, but he was studiously avoiding making eye contact.

“Keep reading. There’s another scroll once you’ve finished that one,” the sellsword Knight growled from high above her.

Arya felt like sticking her tongue out at him. Who was he to give her orders? She made do with glaring at him instead.

The massive, armoured shoulders shrugged and he said, “If you want to know your fate you need to keep reading . . . _Milady_.”

Arya would have sworn the Knight was laughing at her again. _Rat bastard_. She resolved to knock some of that arrogance out of his stupid, smug, big head the first opportunity she got. With a snarl she turned her attention back to the parchment. This time she really did hear him laugh; a low, rumbling sound that set her teeth on edge.

“Bastard,” she hissed from between her teeth, before she started reading aloud again,

 

_The Dragon Queen is wise and clever and fair in her decisions . . ._

This time the Knight interrupted with a loud, mocking, snort. Arya was about to demand he explain his rude interruption, but Tyrion got there first, snapping at his sellsword or whatever he was,

“You might have agreed with that assessment of our dear Queen a few moons ago Ge . . . _Ser_. Now let Lady Arya finish. We don’t have all day and I’m freezing my bollocks off out here . . . _apologies for the language ladies_.”

Meera blushed and Arya gave the bastard another scathing glare, before she continued,

 

_“. . . and I would urge you to agree to whatever she asks of you as I’m sure it will bring you as much happiness as her wedding arrangement has brought me. We leave for Highgarden soon as Willas wants our babe to be born there. I feel sure it is a girl and, if the Gods are good, I intent to name her Catelyn, after our dear mother. Please come and visit us as soon as you can and, Gods be good, you will have a babe of your own by then._

_Your dear sister,_

_Sansa.”_

“Your sister’s not much like you is she?” Meera asked, trying very hard not to smile.

“No,” Arya said, blowing out a frustrated sigh, “She’s not.” _Come and visit her Highgarden?_ Did Sansa have any idea of the life or death struggles she was facing here? Presumably not, but still, Arya was resentful at Sansa having left her with the responsibility of House Stark and Winterfell while Sansa was happily making babes with Lord bloody Willas in bloody Highgarden.

“The next one is from Queen Daenerys,” Tyrion said solemnly as he handed Arya the second scroll.

This scroll bore the unmistakable seal of the three headed dragon. Arya broke it open quickly, hoping it contained better news than Sansa’s.

 

_I, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of my name, Queen of Westeros, Essos and the Summer Isles, Mother of Dragons, Slayer of Lies, Bride of Fire . . ._

“Blah, blah, blah . . . she’s got a lot of names this Queen of yours hasn’t she?” Arya muttered.

The no-name bastard gave another of his deep, rumbling laughs and Arya felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. That rat bastard had an infectious laugh, but she shouldn’t be thinking about that now. Arya dragged her attention away from the huge, mysterious and admittedly rather impressive knight before her and focused once again on Daenerys’ scroll.

 

_Claim Winterfell in my name for the Iron Throne . . ._

 

“What?!” Arya yelped. “She can’t! It’s mine. Sansa just confirmed it!”

“I have six thousand men who say she can,” the rat bastard growled. “Keep reading.”

Arya glared at him again and cursed herself for thinking there was ever anything remotely appealing about him.

 

_I am prepared to let House Stark remain in Winterfell and continue as Wardens of the North in perpetuity, providing Lady Arya Stark agrees to the following conditions;_

_1\. That Lady Arya Stark, as head of House Stark swears fealty to me and to the Iron Throne._

_2\. That Lady Arya Stark agrees to wed the Commander of army, take him as her husband and afford him the title of Lord Stark, Warden of the North and all that entails. Their children and greater issue shall then rule Winterfell in perpetuity as Starks._

Arya had to stop to take a deep, steadying breath. It was as bad as she had feared. But there was even more -

 

_If Lady Arya Stark fails to agree to my terms then I authorise use of whatever means my Commander deems necessary in order to claim Winterfell and the North for the Iron Throne. In such event, Winterfell shall be ruled by House Targaryen and Lady Arya Stark, together with all members of her House and all who assist her in defying me, shall be declared to be traitors to the Iron Throne and executed as such, or brought to King’s Landing for sentencing with all possible haste._

_Signed_

_Daenerys Targaryen, the First of her Name_ etc, bloody etc.

Once she had finished reading, Arya quickly turned the parchment over, hoping there was more, as there had been on Sansa’s, hoping this somehow wasn’t true. But there was nothing else. So much for Sansa thinking the Dragon Queen was clever and fair. Clever? Undoubtedly. Fair? Undoubtedly not. But Daenerys had made her position perfectly clear and Arya intended to make her position perfectly clear too.

She looked up at Tyrion and solemnly vowed, “I will never marry you Tyrion. You have my father’s blood on your hands. A Lannister will never be Lord of Winterfell. I’d rather die than see that happen.”

Meera gasped and laid her hand on Arya’s arm. Tyrion managed to look apologetic, while at the same time, giving her a grin that pulled his face awkwardly.

“Although it was not me personally who gave the order for your father’s execution, I can’t say I blame you. I would probably feel the same about a Stark in Casterly Rock. So it’s a good thing I am not Commander of this army isn’t it?”

“Then who is?” Meera gasped, gripping Arya’s arm tighter.

“ _I am_ ,” the no-name bastard said in that low, rumbling voice and again, Arya would have sworn he was grinning at her beneath that damn helmet of his. _Rat bastard._

“And if I refuse?” Arya asked, giving the smug bastard the steeliest glare she could muster.

“I will take Winterfell, with or without your agreement Lady. I have taken the Twins. Do you think Winterfell can stand against me?”

He gestured up towards the battlements with one huge fist and she heard the arrogant satisfaction in his voice as he told her, “Those boys up there are no match for us.”

The bastard knight turned in his saddle to look behind him. His movement was accompanied by the harsh sound of metal moving against metal and the more subtle, familiar sound of creaking leather. He did not need to gesture behind him to make his point. Arya’s eyes followed his backwards glance to gaze upon rows and rows of war horses and heavily armoured knights, with archers behind them and an army behind that. She felt her shoulders sag slightly as she was forced to confront the hopeless reality of her situation.

“There must be another way Tyrion.” Arya said, as calmly and as authoritatively as she could. Tyrion was the smartest man in Westeros, perhaps if she appealed to his better nature he could think of a way to get her out of this.

But unfortunately, it seemed Tyrion had no better nature. “You read the Queen’s decree. _Wed or Dead_ ,” he replied with another, unpleasant grin.

The bastard turned sharply towards Tyrion. Arya imagined the Queen’s Commander didn’t like that suggestion any more than she did. If she died, so did his prize. Daenerys hadn’t said anything about his being Lord of Winterfell if Arya was dead.

Perhaps the rat bastard might prove to be an unexpected ally in this farce.

“I’m harder to kill than you’d think,” Arya said coolly and with a slow, dangerous, unpleasant grin of her own. They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

“Oh, I imagine you are, but I wasn’t specifically meaning just you when I said ‘ _dead_ ’,” Tyrion grinned cheerfully, looking pointedly towards Winterfell’s battlements where the boys stood on blocks of wood, “I meant them and I meant everyone within Winterfell’s walls. So what’s it going to be Lady Stark? _Wed or Dead_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for all the positive comments and reviews. I’m back at work tomorrow (Boo! Hiss!) so it will take a bit longer for updates. Bear with me and I’ll see you asap.


	5. Wed or Dead

“A moment to consider, if you will, Lord Lannister,” Arya asked, being careful not to let her mask slip, although bile hit the back of her throat and she wanted to rip the dwarf’s misshaped head off his stunted shoulders. This negotiation was a matter of life and death for her and for everyone she held dear, but Tyrion treated it as some kind of game. Wed or Dead? Where had he stolen that line? Some mummer’s farce?

Still, Arya knew with absolute certainty, if she exhibited any weakness, Tyrion would exploit it ruthlessly. He seemed to know that nothing he or his bastard could do to her would break her, but damn him, in threatening Winterfell’s inhabitants, Tyrion had already exposed her biggest weakness. Dying for Winterfell held no fear for her, but what would happen to those she left behind did.

“Of course, you may have a moment Lady Arya, but only one, for I am anxious to get out of this damn snow and cocoon myself in Winterfell’s warmth.” 

As she near gagged on the thought of Tyrion Lannister cocooning himself anywhere, but in her beloved Winterfell?! Seeming to read her thoughts, Tyrion gave her a smug, self-satisfied, smirk. 

This could actually have been worse; she thought morosely, she could have been forced to marry the imp. Now that would have been a fate worse than death and she thanked the Gods for Sansa’s fortunate escape. 

Pulling Meera along with her, Arya walked back towards Winterfell, stopping only when they were well out of Tyrion’s earshot.

 

As soon as the two ladies were far enough away that they would not hear what he had to say, Gendry wheeled his horse around so he was on Tyrion’s other side, facing his ranks of knights. Snapping his visor up and leaning down to Tyrion, Gendry ranted as loudly as he dared, “Wed or dead?! What the fuck was that? Arya’s no use to me dead!”

Tyrion didn’t seem in the least perturbed by Gendry’s anger. He even seemed to find it mildly amusing, which only enraged Gendry more.

“Fuck your Game of Thrones Tyrion! We’re talking about my woman here and, believe me; I’ll see you dead before I let you or any other fucker lay a finger on her.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Tyrion drawled.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?!” Gendry near yelled, before catching himself and lowering his voice to a menacing rumble, “I thought we agreed that threatening her people would doom my marriage from the start? And that’s what you’ve just done you little . . . twisted . . . little piece of shit!”

With one trencher sized hoof, Smith stomped the frozen ground as if to underscore his Master’s displeasure.

“Are you familiar with the game ‘good knight, bad knight’?”

Gendry reined in his warhorse as Smith started to prance beneath him; his horse obviously hoping there would be more to this morning than standing around in a frozen field. “Why do you start talking in riddles whenever I need to discuss anything important with you?”

“I’m only trying to explain my methods in a way someone like you might understand.”

“Someone like me?” Gendry repeated incredulously. “You mean someone with honour who doesn’t threaten his brother’s lady with death?!”

“Just answer my question and we’ll be done with this sooner rather than later,” Tyrion sighed, while watching the prettiest, sweetest little Crannogwoman he had seen in . . . probably his whole life. Women from the Neck weren’t generally renowned for being either pretty or sweet, but this one certainly made up for all the rest.

“Then no, I’ve never heard of ‘good knight, bad knight’,” Gendry snapped.

“Well, if you had, you’d know that I’m actually helping you. The more she hates me, the more she’ll like you.”

“How in seven hells is threatening my wife with death going to make her like me in the first place, never mind like me more?”

Tyrion finally dragged his eyes from Lady Reed’s sweet rear view to Gendry’s furious, scowling face. “It’s me she hates not you,” he explained slowly as if he was explaining something to Patchface or Cersi. “I am the bad knight, who threatens her with all sorts of horrible things and you are the good knight into whose big, strong arms she’ll run in order to get away from me.”

“Oh.” That actually didn’t sound too bad to Gendry, although he suspected Arya might not co-operative with that plan as easily as Tyrion seemed to think she would. “So, because it’s you who has threatened her and everyone she holds dear, I’m not going to be the one to suffer for it.”

“Well done! See, you are a fast learner. You even played along without my having explained it to you.”

“I suppose a blind man would have noticed I didn’t like your ‘Wed or Dead’ shit any better than she did.”

“Precisely. I suspect she is over there right now discussing with Lady Meera of the pretty ankles how her wedding to you will protect her from a despicable little shit like me.”

Gendry certainly hoped so. “Pretty ankles, eh?” he teased as he wheeled Smith back around.

Tyrion didn’t consider that comment required a response. Instead he calmly pointed out that Gendry’s visor was still raised. Then he asked, “Do you ever intend to take that damn thing off?”

Gendry hurriedly snapped his visor down. “After we’re wed and not before.”

“I’m not sure if it’s even legal to wed in a full face helmet you know,” Tyrion mused. “She could always claim you were not the man she married and if there is no one to confirm it was actually you who wrapped the cloak around her shoulders . . . “

“You could confirm it.”

“Oh yes, and my word is as good as gold in the Red Keep isn’t it?” Tyrion replied sarcastically. “Be careful or you could find yourself facing your own annulment. Learn from my mistakes brother. Leave no room for a reluctant bride or a scheming bitch of a Queen to scupper your plans. Take that damn helmet off. Consummate your marriage as soon as you can and make sure everyone knows about it.” 

“Let me worry about the consummation,” Gendry said, what he suspected was a rather lecherous grin. 

“You may not find it quite as easy as you think if your bride is not willing.”

Arya not willing? Now that had never occurred to him. Gendry had assumed, quite rightly as it turned out, that Arya might be reluctant to wed; he was still a no-name bastard after all and she was bringing considerable more to the match than he was. But once they were wed? Surely then she would be willing? Why in sevens hells would she not be? He might not be as pretty as Aegon or some of those young, high born knights who would run from any fight that didn’t take place on a tourney ground, but he’d never got the impression any woman would actually refuse him; if he asked. But he hadn’t been young and stupid enough or drunk enough to want to ask in a very long time. Tyrion had him worried now.

One look at Tyrion’s sad and wistful expression told Gendry he would do well to heed Tyrion’s advice or he might end up as heartbroken and lonely as the imp.

“How did a Flea Bottom bastard like you meet such a high born lady anyway?” Tyrion asked, changing the subject, much to Gendry’s relief.

“Would you believe we had both been recruited for the Night’s Watch?”

Tyrion chuckled, “I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else. A good way to smuggle a Princess of the North out of King’s Landing and back to the safety of her people. But you? What had you done? Rape? Murder? Stolen a bowl of that tasty Flea Bottom brown from the wrong cook?”

“No. I was told I was for the Wall and that was that.”

“Ahhhh,” Tyrion mused, “I recall Varys having a hand in it, now I think back. My sweet sister was determined to destroy all Robert’s bastards as I recall and naturally Varys would do anything to thwart her.”

Seven buggering hells, was there anything Tyrion Lannister didn’t know? 

“And you just went without asking why?” Tyrion asked with a frown. 

It seemed strange to Gendry now too. He had been the one giving the orders for so long himself that he could hardly remember a time when he would blindly do what he was told, but such was the life of a no-name bastard.

“What other option did I have? Sink back to Flea Bottom? The Wall had to be better than that.”

"Having been to both, I’m not sure I would agree,” Tyrion chuckled, “At least there’s sex to be had in Flea Bottom.” 

“I was four and ten. Sex wasn’t a consideration.”

“Ahhh,” Tyrion purred, amusement sparkling in his eyes, “The gossips whisper of it you know; your complete lack of consideration for the ladies who throw themselves at your feet, or for whoring, or beautiful squires or ‘special friends’ amongst your knights.”

Gendry shot Tyrion a burning sideways glare through his visor. Did Red Keep gossip really sink so low? 

Tyrion shrugged and chuckled, “You’re Renly’s nephew as much as you are Robert’s son.”

“My tastes are nothing like my father’s or Renly’s,” Gendry said through gritted teeth. Yet again, the imp had surprised him. Tyrion knew things that Gendry thought to be secret. Deep in her cups, Brienne had confided Renly’s preferences to him, but Gendry had sworn never to tell and he hadn’t, yet Tyrion knew and even japed about it. No wonder Daenerys wanted rid of him.

“I’ll not mention Lyanna Stark then shall I? Instead I’ll say your taste is quite exclusive. Would that do? The only women who interest you have to be beautiful, deadly, and have a dowry of one of the greatest castles in the land. There aren’t many like that. Quite a stretch for a Flea Bottom bastard.”

Gendry didn’t like Tyrion’s implication. “I’d want her without the lands and titles.”

“Of course,” Tyrion purred, “but it doesn’t hurt does it? Makes all that time you’ve spent proving yourself worthy of her to be a worthwhile investment.”

“Keep this up and you’ll having me hating your bad knight act as much as Arya does,” Gendry grumbled. 

Damn but he was too good at this, Tyrion thought with a satisfied smirk.

-o-

 

Making sure their backs were to Tyrion, Arya bowed her head down so her forehead brushed against Meera’s. “What do you think I should do?” She whispered.

Meera sighed deeply, “Wed him, of course.”

Arya hadn’t expected quite as certain an answer, quite as quickly.

“You’re so sure? Do you think I can trust that Lannister to keep his word? What if he plans to implement the ‘dead’ part anyway? 

“Stuff and nonsense. He’s not going to kill anyone,” Meera said, gazing dreamily up at Winterfell’s walls. They were going to be alright. She felt as if Bran was here, smiling down at them.

“What? Were you not listening? Did you not hear the imp threaten us all?”

“Yes, yes, but not to worry,” Meera said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The stag with the broken antlers has arrived at last and he won’t let any harm come to us.”

“I’ve not to worry?” Arya repeated. Had Meera taken leave of her senses?

“It’s awfully romantic,” Meera sighed wistfully.

“Romantic?” Arya gasped, unsure if she had heard Meera correctly. Her situation was certainly awful – that part was true. Moments ago Tyrion Lannister had threatened them all with death. Meera included. Had she gone mad? Had the stress and the lack of food finally got to her? 

Arya turned Meera around so they were face to face. Her friend’s eyes were glassy and held a faraway expression. “Bran has been watching over us,” Meera whispered as if telling Arya a great secret.

Had Meera taken some milk of the poppy perhaps? She had never once mentioned Bran in all the time Arya had known her. Arya suspect Meera had loved Bran and perhaps Bran had loved her back, but Bran was dead. He certainly wasn’t watching them. At the time of their greatest crisis, Meera was imagining ghosts. Something was very wrong.

The noise made by the flat slap of Arya’s palm on Meera’s face shattered the cold, still air.

“Oww!” Meera yelped, holding her own hand against her now flaming cheek. “What did you do that for?!”

Arya stole a glance behind before she answered. Damn, but the noise had attracted Tyrion’s attention. He was glowering at her as if he meant to implement that death sentence right now and the rat bastard had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Even shielded by his visor, Arya knew when their eyes met, for she could feel the searing burn of his disapproval. 

Throwing an arm around Meera’s shoulder’s Arya pulled her friend closer and hissed,  
“I had to bring you to your senses. Sorry.” For some reason Arya felt the unsettling need to apologise to the no-name bastard as much as to Meera, “This is a matter of life and death and I can’t have you acting hysterically.”

While Meera scowled furiously at Arya, Tyrion shouted over, “Are you alright Lady Reed? We’re here if you need us.” 

Damn, but the imp was good; he even managed to sound concerned. If his Lannister gold ever ran out, Tyrion could easily find work in a mummer’s troupe.

“I’ve got a mind to tell him I’m not alright,” Meera grumbled, rubbing her throbbing cheek, “Don’t you dare do that again.” 

“I’ll make it up to you when we get out of this mess, but we’ve got to get out of it first.”

“Oh it’s ‘we’ is it now?” Meera harrumphed, “A moment ago it was you who got us into this mess, but now it’s we?” 

“See! You’re back to normal. Now tell me what you think we, I mean . . . I . . . should do?”

Meera looked at her as if she was the castle fool and snapped, “I’ve already told you. Wed him of course.”

Arya was even more taken aback hearing Meera say it with such certainty for a second time. Arya had expected Meera’s unconditional loyalty – she’d always had it before and to have her best friend, her only friend, side with the enemy was not just unexpected, it hurt. Without Meera’s support, Arya felt unexpectedly vulnerable and insecure. She and Meera had faced everything together and now it was as if Meera had abandoned her. Arya felt as if the ground she stood on had just shifted. 

“But I don’t want to.” Her refusal sounded whiney, even to Arya’s own ears

“He’s the first man to conquer the Twins in six hundred years and he’s going to take Winterfell and you whether you agree to it or not!” Meera didn’t add “you fool” but Arya heard it anyway.

Meera crossed her arms and started doing that impatient, foot tapping thing she did when she was angry. Arya was beginning to think she had made a big mistake in trying to bring Meera back to her senses. 

“What’s wrong with him? Name me one thing,” Meera demanded.

Arya could think of a whole list of things; he was unbearably arrogant, he laughed at her repeatedly when he had no cause to, he was far too big and strong and capable for her liking, he was definitely hiding something under that helmet and, worst of all, he was in league with that snake Tyrion Lannister.

Instead of running off the whole list, she gave Meera the only answer that mattered.

“He’s a no-name bastard,” she said contemptuously. “His father obviously didn’t want him and neither do I!”

“That’s it?” Meera scoffed, “He’s achieved what no one else in six hundred years could and you won’t have him because he doesn’t have a name? That’s what you should like best about him you fool!” 

Hearing Meera call her a fool to her face, made Arya wince as much as if she had been slapped herself. Arya thought she’d seen Meera angry before, but it was nothing compared to this, “Your babe will be a Stark. Isn’t that exactly what you wanted?” 

Turning on her heel and tossing her hair over her shoulder, Meera tilted her head back around and said, “I don’t understand you at all. You said you’d do anything for Winterfell and for us. Now the answer to all our prayers and the best thing that’s ever happened to you is handed to you on a platter and you turn your arrogant, conceited, snobbish, selfish, long nose up at him. You know what? He deserves a better wife than you!”

Arya stood in stunned silence as Meera stomped away from her. Long nose? Arya didn’t even realise her mouth was hanging open until the back of her throat started to freeze. Shutting her mouth she swallowed the ice crystals and felt her blood boil with furious resentment. He was too good for her? A no-name bastard too good for the Lady of Winterfell? Meera had called her ‘the cradle of the North’! Worthy of the seed of the finest lords in the land, not some big, guaranteed ugly, no-name bastard! So he had won a battle. No doubt by luck over skill. Arya had the blood of the First Men running in her veins and she could have probably won that battle if she had half his army!

How dare Meera! How dare he! And as for that snake Tyrion Lannister! She would show them all.

Arya was about to set off to let Tyrion know exactly what she thought of him and his bloody ultimatum, when he spurred his pony forwards. Expecting he was eager to receive her decision; Arya was surprised when, instead of riding straight towards her, he stopped beside Meera instead. And Arya was astonished when Tyrion leaned over and appeared to wipe something from Meera’s face! And when Meera put her foot on top of Tyrion’s and, with his help, swung herself up behind him on the pony, Arya was beyond appalled. She realised her mouth might actually freeze open this time if she didn’t shut it quickly.

Then off Meera and Tyrion trotted, towards the rows of knights and the rat bastard just sat there, gleaming in the sun, while his huge horse pawed the ground. When he put his spurs to the beast’s flanks, Arya thought for one, bone chilling, moment he was about to charge her down, but the rat bastard kept his destrier tightly reined to a prancing walk while his eyes never left her. Then the damned drums started again.

She was determined to stand her ground and it seemed he was just as determined to make her give it up. He did not stop his advance until she could feel his destrier’s hot, damp breath on top of her head. Urgh. It also meant she had to crane her neck to look up at him and, with the sun behind him, she could hardly see a thing. He’d done it all intentionally, of course. And this was the man who was to be her husband. Rat bastard. But the seven hells would freeze over before she would retreat even one step 

“So what’s your decision lady?”

“She thought of her father who died a traitor’s death even though there was no one nobler who had ever lived, she thought of Jon at the Wall, with the responsibility of the whole Realm on his shoulders, she thought of her dead mother and brothers and all the women and children of Winterfell and all the people of the North whose lives depended on her. She wanted to cry for them all and most of all she wanted to cry for herself, but Direwolves didn’t cry. Instead Lady Arya Stark raised her chin, looked her husband square in the eye and said as loudly and as proudly as she could, 

“Wed.”

She knew there would be a smug grin behind that visor, but she was about to wipe it off his no-name bastard face.

“ . . . But I have conditions.” 

To her dismay, he didn’t seem in the least surprised.

“Alright, let’s hear them.”

Taking her lead from Daenerys, Arya began to count them off on her fingers.

“One. No raping, pillaging or sacking of Winterfell in any way whatsoever.”

There was no hesitation before he answered, “Agreed. You need have no concerns abut my men. They will treat Winterfell and everyone she harbours with the respect due to a gracious host.”

Hmmm, Arya hadn’t quite intended to play the gracious host, but husband had promised what she needed him to, so she continued.

“Two. I want unlimited access to your supplies. Whatever I need, I take.”

There was a slight pause this time.

“Agreed. What’s mine is yours.”

She could hear the smirk in his voice again, but what did she care? He could smirk all he liked behind his damned visor, she had what she wanted. She returned his hidden smirk with one of her own, one that he certainly couldn’t miss.

“Of course, that agreement cuts both ways Milady. What’s yours is also mine and whatever I need, I will take.” 

She hadn’t anticipated that. He might not be happy when he found out Winterfell had no treasure to give him in exchange. Arya felt her smirk slip and almost become a frown before she caught herself and graciously replied, “Of course Milord. Oh! That’s not right is it?” She paused, pouted and pressed her forefinger to her lip, pretending she hadn’t meant to insult him. “You aren’t a Lord are you? Oh, this is awkward isn’t it? How should a lady like myself address a . . . . a . . . whatever-you-are?”

The horse snorted and she turned her head away. She didn’t like hot, wet, horse breath, but more than that, she didn’t want husband see her trying to stop herself from laughing. So she bit her lip and stifled the giggle that threatened to escape and waited for his reply. Arya knew her husband would be seething behind his damn helmet. Ha! Served him right. 

But her insult had failed to ruffle him as much as she would have liked, for he could still talk.

“Husband will do for now. But you won’t have to worry about it for long Lady Stark. Once we’re wed, I will be your Lord and you’ll address me accordingly.”

Arya allowed herself to smile, relishing the clipped irritation in his voice. Beginning to enjoy this game, she gave him a deceitful little bow of deference. She could stretch a betrothal out a looooong time.

“We must start planning our wedding as soon as possible then!” she cheered, clapping her hands together as she imagined Sansa would have done upon hearing of her betrothal to Lord bloody Tyrell. Arya was sure Sansa wouldn’t have been quite so delighted if her ‘wise and clever’ Queen Daenerys had foisted some no-name bastard on her. 

“Ravens have become so unreliable this winter; we’ll need to wait until all roads are passable I’m afraid. We must invite all my . . . oh I’m sorry, I mean our . . . lesser lords and bannermen and once we know how many can attend, we can plan accordingly. It will be such fun! I know, we shall hold a tourney to celebrate!” 

Arya clasped her hand to her chest dramatically, hoping she sounded beyond excited, while thinking a tourney would take moons to organise. They would need to wait until well into spring before the weather would be kind enough and the no-name bastard would be forced to compete in his plain armour with no sigil and plenty of humiliation.

She wished he would take his helmet off, as she was sure he was furious beneath it and she found herself wanting to see that.

Gendry had actually thought her enthusiasm was genuine when she first started talking about planning their wedding, then, as she’d prattled on about ravens and invites and bloody tourneys, he’d realised she was intending to play him for a fool. But he was a wiser man now. Perhaps Daenerys had done him a favour after all.

“There will be no tourney. While I’m sure it would be no end of fun for you, I have more pressing things to attend to,” Gendry growled, trying not to think on his swollen cock pressing uncomfortably against his armour. Not even his padded woollen smallclothes were providing much relief. Gods, but he was finding verbally sparing with her to be almost as stimulating as a physical confrontation. His mind drifted again to his tickling her in Acorn Hall and his cock stiffened even more. How many more damn conditions did she have? If she knew the state he was in, she’d know he’d agree to anything she wanted, just to get this damn wedding over with. The thought of the bedding to follow sent his blood pounding even faster and had him cursing his damn armour.

“We’ll wed immediately,” He declared, imagining the rising panic she must be feeling as her plan to delay the inevitable collapsed about her. To her credit, Arya never let it show in her voice or on her beautiful face, but the almost imperceptible flexing of both her wrists gave her discomfort away. With a start, he realised she probably had knives hidden there - he would have if he had been in her boots. 

Only someone who had reason to carry a concealed blade themselves would recognise the little, reassuring check she gave that the steel was there, ready and waiting. The warrior in him recognised its equal in her. No matter how distracted he became, he would need to remember that behind Arya’s beautiful face and beneath her pale, delicate skin, there lurked an assassin. Being reminded of the Faceless Men irritated him intensely.

As he silently fumed, she looked pleased with herself again. She’d obviously thought of yet other delaying tactic. 

“You’ll want a Septon and we’ll need to send for one. For such an auspicious match, I think we should hold out for the High Septon himself. Anything less would do you a great disservice – husband.”

She seemed to think him a fool. Disappointment and frustration made him short tempered and he snapped at her,

“The seven find no favour with me. The Lords of Winterfell have always held to the old Gods and I intend to do the same. It’ll be the Godswood. Now.”

Again, no flicker of emotion crossed her face, but there was the subtle flex of her wrists again. Did she really think she could kill him? He was wearing a full suit of armour for God’s sake! Perhaps she hoped to slice through his leather gloves, hack his hands off and watch him bleed to death. He found himself ruefully thinking that, if she waited until after the bedding he might not mind dying quite as much, but he had been looking forward to wedding and bedding her for such a long time that he had no intention whatsoever of dying before then.

“Are we agreed? Then let’s get this done,” Tyrion interrupted from nowhere. He must have come riding back without them noticing, still with Meera behind him. Arya noticed Meera had her un-slapped cheek resting on Tyrion’s back and that she wouldn’t meet Arya’s eyes. 

“We are agreed,” Husband answered for them both. Arya was startled he thought he could speak for her. But then she realised that is what husbands generally did and she might have to put with it - at least she might for a very short while. She had no intention of putting up with this farce of a marriage for very long at all.

“Unless my lady has any more conditions?”

Arya thought of making condition number three, his taking his stupid helmet off, but with a resigned sigh, she realised it didn’t matter. If he was ugly, she’d laugh in his face, if he was scared, she’d still laugh in his face.

“No husband, I don’t. I believe we are both clear that I am being forced into this and it is a marriage of convenience that suits us both and nothing more.”

Gendry didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all, but he couldn’t let her see how disappointed he was, not when she didn’t know who he was. Tyrion’s advice about reluctant brides rung in his ears. He’d sort this damn mess out one way or another. If he could command six thousand men, surely he could command one wayward wife. Even if she was a she-wolf.

Seemingly satisfied, Tyrion extracted a quill pen from somewhere on his person. Brandishing both the pen and Daenerys’ parchment with a flourish, he held them out to Arya and said “You agreement Lady Stark . . .” 

Grabbing them, Arya asked mockingly, “Am I supposed to sign in blood?”

“If you wish,” Tyrion replied smoothly, “However, I have an inkwell right here, if the lady prefers.” To Arya’s horror, Tyrion fiddled with the surcoat and chain mail and then reached down the front of his britches and brought out a little pot with a snap lid.

“I have to keep it warm, else it would freeze,” he explained as if it was the most normal thing in the world to have a portable inkpot secreted in your smallclothes.

“You carry pen and ink into battle with you?” Meera asked incredulously.

“It’s instead of a sword,” Gendry explained sarcastically.

“One day my pen shall be mightier than your sword,” Tyrion said grandly as he popped open the lid of the inkwell.

“Not as long as I’m alive,” Gendry snorted, which made Meera giggle, although she still wouldn’t look at Arya.

“And what am I supposed to lean on?” Arya demanded bad temperedly. Even Meera seemed to be treating this like a game now. Arya wished there was a way, any way at all, out of signing Winterfell over to this bastard and his Dragon Queen and of signing herself into the slavery of being a wife. But she could think of none.

Swinging out of his saddle as smoothly as full plate armour would allow, her husband slowly lowered himself to one knee and said, “Lean on me.”

Arya couldn’t have been more surprised if Tyrion’s nose had suddenly grown back. What kind of knight and commander did not wait for a squire to bring him a dismounting step; much less offer his back as a writing desk?

Tyrion leaned over with the inkpot. Arya absentmindedly dipped the quill pen into it, but something much more interesting had caught her attention; her husband had overlong black hair. 

A few loose tendrils poked out from under the curved rim of his helmet, to lie against the smooth steel of his armour. In complete contrast to the hard plate gleaming in the morning sun, his hair was midnight black and soft. She had to fight the urge to take the quill between her teeth and touch the first part of him that she had seen. She knew so little about this man who would be her Lord; she knew he had no-name, that he must be fearless in battle, that he enjoyed laughing at her and that he had straight, silky, black hair.

“Lady Arya . . .” Tyrion interrupted, “A certain part of my body, actually two very precious parts, if we I am being precise, are freezing themselves off here. Can we just get this signing over with please?”

Feeling every bit as foolish as those ladies she liked to mock who swooned over chivalrous knights and handsome lords, Arya dragged her gaze away from a few loose strands of hair and straighten Daenerys’ scroll of parchment out across her husband’s wide shoulders.

With a hand that was stupidly shaky, she wrote,

I, Lady Arya Stark, heir to Winterfell and Warden of the North, accept the terms offered to me this day by Queen Daenerys Targaryen.

“Excellent!” Tyrion exclaimed, whisking the parchment away while her quill still hovered over the final word, “To the Godswood!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-reading the part about Tyrion’s pen and ink today, I obviously couldn’t help thinking about Charlie Hebdo and those brave Frenchmen who died for what they believed in. I wrote it a week ago and all I can say about that very strange and poignant coincidence is - Je suis Charlie. I like to think Tyrion would have agreed.
> 
> I’ve left you on another mini cliffhanger, but I figured you’d prefer something rather than nothing. Wed (and perhaps even bed) next Chapter. Hopefully on Sunday.
> 
> Brazilian Guy was a big help with this. He’s my go-to-guy for chivalry, war, checking my Gendarya feels and just if I need to smile. Cheers, BG.


	6. The Godswood

Seeing Tyrion gleefully blow on the fresh ink sent a wave of relief washing over Gendry. The deal was done. All that remained was to formalise the marriage in the Godswood, before as many witnesses as he could muster, then consummate it. Tonight. With Arya. Gods, he was going to have to take his helmet off.

Tyrion had worried him with all that talk of annulments. The ink might be dry on the contract, but the marriage of convenience Arya claimed she had entered into wasn’t what he wanted at all. 

With one fist on the ground to brace himself, he pushed slowly up to standing, only to find Arya looking at him strangely. He had to check he had not raised his visor and somehow forgotten about it – but no, his line of sight was still framed by black shadows. Yet she was looking at him differently than before. It was as if she was actually looking at him as a man, rather than just an armoured opponent. Seven hells, perhaps he should have just been honest with her from the start. But it was too late for that now.

What if she laughed at him . . . no, he knew she wouldn’t laugh. Tyrion might treat this as a Game of Thrones, but it was clearly no more of a game to Arya, than it was to Gendry. She wouldn’t laugh - she’d be much more likely to launch those hidden blades straight at his stupid head. One more reason to keep his helmet on, he thought ruefully.

Unsure of when best to reveal himself and wishing to put it off as long as possible, Gendry set one armoured foot in the stirrup, grabbed the pommel of his saddle and hauled himself up onto Smith’s back. Even the mighty destrier snorted and sidestepped under the sudden additional weight.

Extending his hand to Arya, he made his offer, “Milady.” 

She contemplated his leather glove for what seemed to be far too long. Surely she wasn’t thinking about using her damn knives on him? Gendry silently willed her to take his hand and all that he offered.

 

Arya looked at the huge, snorting black horse, the stupid hammer attached to his saddle (a smith’s hammer with a short handle rather than a long handled war hammer - near useless against a sword on horseback) and she glared at his outstretched hand. Did he actually expect her to shake it? Nothing she had done before had prepared her for this. She was furious at having been backed into a corner from where the only escape was marriage to a no-name bastard. At the very least she had expected an alliance worthy of House Stark and gold – a lot of gold. Her new husband could offer her neither. But she’d given her word as the last Stark of Winterfell and she’d be damned before a Stark broke their vow. Honour was one of the few things House Stark had left. 

So Arya took his hand, only to find herself immediately and effortless hoisted into the air and deposited onto his lap. If she had needed any proof of his strength, he’d just given her a dramatic demonstration. She might have agreed to be this brute’s wife, but she was not going to let her bottom warm his armour. No sooner had he set her down, but she was off - sliding over the side. The bloody horse skittered under them, not liking the sudden shifting of weight. Quick as a snake, his arm was wrapped around her waist, hauling her back.

“Stop wriggling. Smith doesn’t like it,” he growled, restraining the horse with one hand and her with the other. “Smith’s my horse,” he explained - not that she cared. Narrowing her eyes, Arya glared at him and struggled some more, furious at being prevented from escaping.

Grunting with the effort of holding her even tighter and struggling with the skittish horse, he cursed quite impressively under his breath. 

“Ask me to let you go and I will, but you’ll be trailing after Smith’s arse instead of riding up here where you belong.”

Where she belonged! As if she would ever belong anywhere near him. Was their no end to this man’s arrogance? Arya shot a glance across to Meera sitting behind Tyrion, but she was still studiously avoiding making eye contact. There would be no sisterly support from Meera and Arya had to admit that the rat bastard had a point. She’d be the only one walking amidst a parade of knights on horseback. So she stopped wriggling.

“Alright,” Arya conceded through gritted teeth, “But do not dare touch me again without my permission.”

To her extreme annoyance, there was that muffled chuckle again.

“Will you ride with me Lady Arya?” he asked most chivalrously as he loosened his hold around her waist.

Arya growled something non-committal in reply and he outright laughed as he spurred his black beast of a horse to walk on. 

Sitting on his horse, against her will, Arya couldn’t help but be reminded of the Hound and Stranger; unpleasant memories she had tried hard to forget. At least this knight didn’t smell as bad as Clegane, but Arya found herself wondering if he was as scarred under his helmet. Presumably he was going to have to take the damn thing off sometime and she’d laugh at him as hard as she could. Until then she decided the best plan was to simply ignore him.

“What did you think of your wedding present?” He asked, ruining her plan almost immediately. She could hardly ignore a question like that.

“What present?” she scoffed, looking determinedly straight ahead as Smith’s iron shod hooves rang out sharply on the drawbridge.

“Old Walder and his chair of course. I could have had him dragged back to King’s Landing behind a pack of wolves, but I wanted you to have him, or have his head at least.”

Walder was her wedding present? Unexpectedly Arya found that a laugh of surprise and delight bubbling up from nowhere. She stifled it immediately, resulting in a choking, snorting sort of sound. How unladylike. But what did she care? She intended to behave as obnoxiously around her new husband as possible, but still . . . her enemy’s head dipped in tar and impaled on a wooden chair! No husband had ever presented his bride with such a thoughtful present, although Arya suspected Sansa might not agree. Despite wanting to hate him for forcing her into this loathsome arrangement, Arya found herself thinking of her new husband with something near respect. He’d wanted her to have Walder’s head – at least he was thoughtful. 

“If he starts to smell, send him off on a tour of the North as proof of your husband’s regard for you. I hear those Boltons and Karstarks have been sniffing around and it won’t do any harm to let them see what they’re dealing with.”

Arya’s amusement and appreciation were immediately and thoroughly dampened. What they were dealing with? Her husband obviously meant who they were dealing with. She could not miss the arrogance and pride in his voice, even muffled by that stupid helmet. He didn’t want to send Walder out as proof of his regard for her, but to mark his territory like . . . like some stag pissing in the woods. Arya had no idea why the image of a stag came to mind, but it did and the image fit. 

To Arya’s disgust, both the Boltons and the Karstarks had crowed about how a marriage alliance to them would strength Winterfell. Then they had blustered and threatened when she dismissed their offers with the contempt they deserved. Did her new husband know this? He certainly seemed to suspect.

They were under the portcullis now, walking through the south gate into the main courtyard and he surprised her again by asking,

“Why is there no fire burning in the smithy?” 

The squat, empty building was the first they passed on their way into the castle. Arya had not noticed how desolate the abandoned smithy made Winterfell seem until he had pointed it out to her. When she was younger, Mikken always kept the forge fires lit. Smoke constantly rose from the chimneys in those days. The welcoming glow and purposeful strike of hammer on metal used to greet all of Winterfell’s visitors. But those days were long gone. 

Arya wondered how to answer her husband’s question? Should she admit there were no horses to shoe, no spare swords to sharpen and no smith to work the steel anyway? Before she could answer, the man behind her took the reins in one hand and raised his visor with the other. 

She should have taken the opportunity to turn around and look at him, but suddenly Arya didn’t want to have to look him in the eye, for she saw what he had seen.

The women who had lowered the drawbridge were arranged on either side of them in two straggling rows, the huge ropes lying discarded at their feet. Hearing the sharp intake of breath behind her, Arya saw the women as he did; exhausted, emaciated and doing a job that should have been carried out by the men of the castle guard. A long line of small children with a range of buckets, some nearly as big as they were, wound its way from the middle of the courtyard towards the Godswood and, up above them on the battlements, boys craned their necks to see the visitors. Hundreds of pairs of wary Winterfell eyes watched the intruders arrive.

“Where are the men?” Her husband’s voice demanded, harsh and threatening behind her. “If you think me fool enough to ride into a trap, think again Lady.”

“There are no men!” Arya snapped, directing all the anger and shame bottled up within her towards him. Much as she wished it was, the lack of men was hardly his fault. Thinking better of her dismal manners, she explained quietly, “I sent them to the Wall when winter came. There is no trap. What you see is all we are; women, babes and boys who are too young to shave.”

The Commander of the Dragon army swore under his breath and unexpectedly, his hand was under her fur cloak and on her thigh; big, heavy and warm even through his leather gloves. Arya could have stuck her blade into the back of his hand, but she knew this was no stolen caress; this was an inspection, his need to know. His hand traced the outline of her thigh and the bones of hip through the fine silk of her dress. As it swept up her slender waist to rest against her ribs, Arya shivered and it was not from the cold. It was from a sudden, stunning awareness of him; of his hand splayed over her ribs, of his size and strength and his expectations. He might only be assessing her now, but he would be her husband soon.

He cursed softly under his breath while Arya held hers; wondering if he intended to touch her breast and if he would recoil at the lack of womanly softness there. But he didn’t, he wrapped his hand around her bicep, encircling it easily and swore again. To her shame, when all around her was misery, Arya found herself wondering how it would have felt to have his warm hand cover her breast.

“I’m sorry Arya. I had no idea,” he murmured and those few words shook her more than she would have thought possible. He cared. She heard it in the tone of his voice, she’d felt it in the enquiring, reverential way he had touched her and in the way his hand still held her arm. He cared that Winterfell had only women and boys to rely on for protection, he cared that they were starving, yet what affected her most was the way he had whispered her name; softly, as if . . . as if he cared about her too. For a moment she didn’t want to have to fight anymore, she wanted to lay down her burden and have someone hold her and tell her everything was going to be alright. But Arya Stark didn’t believe in fairy tales. Or happy endings. She had made her deal with the devil and she intended to make the best of it.

“Well, now you know. We need access to your supplies. What’s yours is ours,” she snarled, reminding him of the terms of their bargain

“Of course.”

To her surprise, he gave no argument nor attached any conditions; instead he wheeled Smith around and trotted back towards Tyrion. Arya could see Meera staring at the Commander with wide eyes. What in seven hells did that mean? Was he truly awful? Arya tried to catch Meera’s attention, but she was too busy staring at Arya’s husband to notice.

“Carry on to the Godswood. We’ll meet you there.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he urged Smith onwards towards the column of approaching knights. Arya felt all of their eyes on her as their Commander rode down the line, calling out names and issuing orders as if he was born to it. He wanted supply wagons brought up now, he wanted his cook in the Winterfell kitchens and everything his cook needed found immediately, he wanted the fires lit in the forge and the list of supplies and wagons brought to him. As half a dozen knights immediately wheeled their horses around to implement his commands, she felt her husband’s armour press against her back and his breath hot against her ear,

“I want to see men on those ropes and battlements. Do you agree Arya?” 

She thought she should perhaps deny him or berate him for being too presumptuous, but to what end? She wanted the same things he did; men defending Winterfell instead of women and children and enough food in the kitchens. 

She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“My Lady wants her guards relieved. I want to see men on those battlements and on those ropes as quickly as we can.”

Another half dozen knights broke ranks to relay their orders down the line.

Arya could not bring herself to thank him, for then she would be obliged to him and she could not have him expecting favours in return. Instead, she grudgingly offered one leader’s compliment to a fellow, “Your men are very well trained.” 

He chuckled, “Daenerys tells me they would follow me through the seven hells and back. I suspect that is one of the reasons why she sent us all here.” 

Now his voice was not muffled by his helmet, Arya heard the deep, masculine rumble of it and the unmistakable Flea Bottom accent he tried hard to hide. It had been years since she had heard that accent and Arya fleetingly wondered at it still being so ingrained on her memory. How strange that a no-name bastard from Flea Bottom had risen so high. While it was not unknown for bastards to do well, it was unusual and those who did had powerful fathers; men who acknowledged their sons. Her husband had already admitted this was not the case with him. 

“You have done well for a no-name bastard,” she said, hoping for an explanation from him and now keen to see his face. Arya turned her head towards him but his helmet pressed against the side of her head and his solid, reassuring presence against her back was abruptly removed. She was sure he had straightened up in order to avoid her seeing his face and, of course, that only made her more determined to see him.

“Do you really not know who your father was?” she pressed as he turned Smith back towards the Godswood. He sat stiff in the saddle and his head was high above hers. Short of swivelling full around and straddling him, which she obviously was not going to do, Arya realised she had no hope of seeing his face while they were on this damn horse.

He blew out what seemed to be a frustrated sigh, before he admitted, “I know who my father was, although I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

The heavy sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable and Arya impatiently waited for more. But it never came.

“So . . . who was he?”

“Robert Baratheon,” was the grudged reply.

Arya was taken aback by this revelation. Her bastard husband had King’s blood in his veins. Everything made more sense now; a bastard leading an army, his taking the Twins, his cocky arrogance, even Queen Daenerys wanting rid of him. And then there were the clues to his Baratheon identity she felt foolish now for missing; the antlers he’d removed from his helmet, the stupid hammer strapped to his saddle, the sheer size of him and that silky black hair she did not want to think about ever again.

“I met him - your father,” she blurted out.

There was an awkward pause that stretched uncomfortably between them, until Arya filled it by asking, “Do you look like him?” She couldn’t help it; she was actually eager, anxious even, to see this new husband of hers. 

“I’m told I’m my father’s very image,” he replied wearily. 

He made it sound as if that wasn’t a good thing. Perhaps it wasn’t. Arya remembered King Robert as a fat, wine soaked old man who had lured her father to his death in the snake pit of the Red Keep. But his son was neither old, nor fat and thankfully, he didn’t reek of wine either, so surely he couldn’t be as repulsive as King Robert. Not yet anyway. 

It occurred to Arya that her father might have been quite pleased about this arrangement had he known; after all, Robert had been his friend and her father had intended to wed one daughter to a Baratheon. But of course Joffrey had not been a Baratheon at all. Arya thought how strange it was that she, rather than Sansa, was the Stark daughter wed to a Baratheon son all these years later. Still, there was obviously more to this than her new husband was telling her – why had he torn the antlers off his helmet? Why hadn’t the Queen legitimised him if he was as good a Commander as he said he was? Arya intended to find out.

By now, they were back in the centre of the courtyard, but the children with the buckets were no longer in a long line. Instead they huddled together, watching the approaching knights suspiciously. The boy Arya had sent to fetch the buckets was pushed forwards by the others. Her husband pulled Smith to a halt as the boy asked, with a trembling voice, “Are the dragons coming Milady?”

“No, mercifully there are no dragons – only the Dragon Queen’s soldiers. Everything is . . . going to be fine,” Arya told the boy, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

The boy nodded, but his frightened eyes drifted to the huge knight behind her. He surprised Arya by asking the boy,

“Would you like to see your Lady wed?” 

The boy’s eyes flicked from the knight to Arya. Perversely Arya found herself giving the boy another reassuring smile – as if this wedding was something she wanted, but it would scare and confuse the children if she were to admit the truth. The boy nodded warily.

The knight seemed pleased as he gruffly extended an invitation to all the children. “We’re having a great feast tonight to celebrate. Would you all like to come?” 

All the children’s faces immediately lit up and their heads bobbed enthusiastically. Arya thought she actually saw a few drool with anticipation at the mention of a feast. Admittedly, Arya’s own mouth watered at the thought. 

“Then follow me!” her husband yelled to the children, kicking his heels to Smith and sending them off at a brisk trot. The children whooped and cheered and clapped as they ran along beside the destrier shouting “A feast! A feast!” 

Arya had to concentrate to keep her balance on the trotting horse. She was sitting sideways on her husband’s lap and had nothing to hold onto. Even so, she was most certainly not going to hold onto him. Despite her precarious position, the children’s enthusiasm was infectious and she found herself smiling along with them and shockingly, even looking forwards to the promised feast. If she had to endure this farce of a marriage, she might as well enjoy the feast that followed. She hoped there really was enough food for a proper feast, although she supposed her stomach had shrunk so much she would probably make herself sick if she ate as much as she intended to. That thought made her snigger. She would need to remember to try to be sick all over him. 

Her huge husband had to duck his head as they passed through the Iron Gate that marked the entrance to the Godswood. Arya resisted the temptation to turn around and try and sneak a peek at his face. She would see him soon enough. 

As it was warmer within Winterfell’s walls, the snow had all but melted in the Godswood already. Over the winter they had stripped the ground clean of fallen wood for their fires, so Smith was able to pick his way quite easily between the trees, although his two riders had to duck to avoid the low hanging branches. One that Arya pushed out of the way sprang back and hit the Commander with sufficient force to make him gasp an involuntary “Oof!” The children still running beside them exploded with laughter and Arya had to bite her lip to stop from laughing herself. 

She tried to repeat the same trick, only to have him push her down over Smith’s neck and crouch low over her himself to avoid the branch, telling her gruffly, “I’m not falling for that twice.” 

Although she protested loudly, to Arya’s surprise, having him wrapped around her wasn’t as unpleasant as she made out. He was careful not to crush her with his weight and it wasn’t as if he was actually touching her – only his armour pressed against her. Perhaps it was because of the armour, but he made her feel safe. She had no idea why, but she suspected he deliberately sent Smith towards low hanging branches just so they had to duck again. After a few, she gave up protesting. It wasn’t unpleasant having someone looking out for her – even if it was just looking out for low hanging branches. She was sure there would be many more important things they would have to fight about. 

Only the heart tree had not lost its leaves during the winter; its red canopy a bright contrast to the barren branches of the other trees. Around the heart tree huddled the mass of the old, the infirm and the babes Arya had sent here for their own safety, while those who could fight faced the enemy; who was to be her husband. 

Meera and Tyrion stood off to the side, deep in conversation as their pony chewed on some tough, winter grass.

The children who had followed them all the way ran ahead to greet their old relatives, still shouting ‘Feast! Feast!’ But that proclamation was not greeted with as much enthusiasm as Arya had expected. Old women drew their grandchildren protectively to their breasts and crowded closer together. They looked at the knight behind Arya suspiciously and eyed Tyrion Lannister with outright contempt.

“I need to talk to them,” Arya murmured.

 

This time, when she slid down from his saddle, Gendry didn’t stop her. Pulling off his helmet, he watched her go; strong, agile, beautiful and very nearly his. It had been glorious to have her riding with him, to breathe in the intoxicating scent of her hair and to have his arm curve possessively around her. Coming through the trees, he had been unable to resist crushing her to him at every opportunity and he was having a harder time navigating through the storm of emotions she stirred in him. 

He’d always know she would be physically strong, but he hadn’t expected the courage and mettle he had seen in that courtyard. Arya had held Winterfell with no men, few supplies and still those women and children, those children, were proud, defiant and ready to fight and die for her. 

Few Commanders could have brought their people through an ordeal like that and have them still willing to fight at the end of it. Yet Arya had. Gendry could well imagine the trials she had endured this winter and his admiration and respect for her only fanned the flames of his desire. However, that desire was tempered by guilt. 

He had obtained her agreement to wed by means that were not entirely fair. But what choice did he have? Without the Targaryen army at his back and Daenerys’ scrolls in his hands, he was still a no-name bastard with no lands or titles to offer a high-born lady. He silently cursed Daenerys and Edric for the umpteenth time. If only he’d been given the Stormlands, he could have come here trailing Baratheon colours to offer her a marriage of equals. He could have done this the right way. Instead, he had hidden inside his helmet and let Tyrion talk her into a trap from where a marriage to him was her only escape. Seven buggering hells, she was going to be livid when she found out. Gendry smoothed his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead. Never mind the Twins; he suspected the impending battle with Arya might be the hardest of his life. It was certainly the most important and one he would not, could not, lose.

 

“I have an announcement,” Arya began, unsure of how best to tell her people what she had done. She had done it for them, but she didn’t want their pity and it would do no one any good if they regarded her husband as the enemy. She offered a silent prayer to her father’s Gods and took a deep breath. Perhaps her prayers were finally answered, as warmth and strength seemed to flow into her from the ground, steadying her and steeling her for what was to come. 

“The Targaryens once more sit upon the Iron Throne and I have made an alliance with Queen Daenerys Targaryen.” 

There were mutterings and more suspicious looks cast at Tyrion and the knight, but feeling fortified, Arya pressed on,

“We are to be given the protection of the Iron Throne, supplies and the promise of peace in Westeros.”

Tentative smiles and even a few tentative cheers greeted this announcement, most probably from the mention of supplies Arya suspected. She had saved the best for last . . .

“My brother Robb has been avenged! The Twins have fallen and the Commander of the Dragon Army has brought me Walder Frey’s head.”

This was met by surprised gasps and then loud, heartfelt cheers. Arya imagined the man behind her would be smiling with smug satisfaction.

She raised her hands for silence. “In exchange for all of this, I have agreed to wed their Commander.” 

There were gasps of surprise and someone shouted, “What House is he from then?”

Before Arya could reply, from over her shoulder the Commander’s voice answered firmly, “As of today - House Stark. I shall be your Lord and I pledge my allegiance and my life to every one of you. In return, I expect fealty from all of you.”

His proclamation was met by stunned silence. Only when all was quiet did Arya and everyone else notice the leaves were moving and murmuring although there had been no breeze a moment before. Every person in the Godswood turned their faces skywards and listened intently. 

Arya had prayed to her father’s Gods every day, sometimes many times a day and yet the heart tree had never spoken to her once - until now. She gazed up at the shivering leaves in awe as they spoke for the first time in an age; two words, repeated softly over and over again. The first was undoubtedly “Welcome,” but the second was lost to Arya.

Meera was the nearest person to her. Their earlier disagreement mattered not at all, when compared to the wonder around them. Hurrying over, Arya whispered urgently, “What do they say? I hear ‘Welcome’, but what is the other word?”

Meera titled her head and thought for a minute, before she replied with utmost certainty, “Gendry.”

With that one word, time seemed to stop for Arya and it was as if everyone else in the Godswood disappeared except him. She turned around slowly to face him. Nothing else existed except the two of them; her standing staring up at him and him sat on his horse, with his helmet under his arm. 

There was no mistake; the leaves spoke the truth. He was the bull-headed, bastard boy of her childhood. He was Gendry. 

Their eyes met and they stared at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. 

Memories of everything he had said and done since his arrival outside Winterfell’s gates seemed to tumble and fly around her until the pieces clicked together one by one; his helmet with antlers instead of bull horns, the straight black hair, the blacksmith’s hammer strapped to his saddle, the familiar way he had first whispered her name, the gold cloaks searching for Robert Baratheon’s bastard all those years ago. It all crystallised together in the ice-blue eyes of that once familiar face.

“You liar!”

He swung down from his horse. Despite the wrongness of it being him and of his being here, he radiated power, strength, confidence and he held her gaze. 

“I never lied to you Arya.” 

Above them the leaves changed their tune and sang, “Stark, Stark, Stark.”

She felt her heart pound, her nostrils flare, strength flow through her from the very ground beneath her feet, until every part of her was tingling with glorious, wonderful, furious life.

 

His hair was too long, plastered to his head from wearing that damn helmet and he had a beard, as all northmen did in winter; thick and black and virile. His face was leaner, all hard angles and his eyes . . . his eyes were the same, only somehow different too. As a boy he’d been shy and unsure, but as a man he was proud, defiant and every inch the Commander of the Dragon Army and the conqueror of the Twins.

Gendry held his hands wide as he stalked towards her. “My name doesn’t change anything. I am still the Commander of the Queen’s army and you agreed to her terms.”

How could he think this changed nothing? It changed everything!

“You tricked me.”

“I had my orders.” 

He stopped directly in front of her. She was tall, but she still had to tilt her chin up to look into his sky-blue eyes. He was both achingly familiar and a complete stranger to her and she hated him. She hated him for a hundred reasons, most of which, admittedly, had nothing to do with him. She hated him because Winterfell had nothing and he was here with six thousand soldiers and wagons full of food, but she hated him more because he’d tricked her into thinking that he cared, tricked her into wanting his hand on her breast, when all he really wanted was to take what belonged to her in order to please his Dragon Queen. And she had thought him a friend once. 

“You could have told me who you were. We could have reached an agreement without . . . without all this.”

Gendry blew out a sigh and ran one gloved hand through his hair, messing it up.

“An agreement, without all this?” he repeated slowly, “And what would Milady have agreed to give a no-name bastard like me?”

She had no answer to that, for she had nothing to give save herself and the worst of it was - he was right. Had she know who he was, she would never have bargained herself away to him. 

He closed the little distance that remained between them and she resolutely refused to back away. They stood toe to toe and the only sound was their harsh breathing.

“I wanted this Arya,” he said, his voice rough with longing, “I’ve fought for it for years; a castle to call my home, a lordship . . .” he paused and those vivid blue eyes sparkled with something dangerous. 

The heat in his gaze burned her skin and sent her heart racing. 

“ . . .But more than that, I wanted you.”

He reached up to try and stroke her cheek, but she angrily batted his hand away. She had been little more than a child when she’d last seen him, when he’d abandoned her for the Brotherhood without Banners and now he claimed to want her? She was obviously just a means to an end for him. A marriage to her gave him everything he wanted; not just a name - a lordship, status and Winterfell. He had even admitted it to her a moment ago. 

“‘Wed or dead’ was what I agreed to and that’s what you’ll get.” Arya hissed through gritted teeth, “A Stark doesn’t break their promise. You’ll get my name and I’ll have to share Winterfell with you, but you’ll never have me. I’ll wed you, but I’ll die before I give you my virginity.” 

Gendry had to swallow. Hard. She was still a virgin? All the men in Braavos must be blind fools. He was enough of a bastard for her admission to send a new wave of desire pounded through his veins, making him more determined than ever to have her.

“Wedded means bedded lady,” he said thickly, trying to get his brain to work. All the blood seemed to have left his head and be pounding in his loins.

“Bedding was not part of the bargain! Wed or dead Tyrion said. Bedding wasn’t mentioned,” she sneered. “Next time you attempt to negotiate a Lady’s surrender, I suggest you be more specific with your terms.”

He could stand there and argue that wedded included bedded to everyone except her, but there was a deep, undeniable, sexual attraction between them. He was sure of it. So sure of it that he was prepared to wager his heart’s desire upon it.

“Alright then, I have a very specific proposal for you now. I’ll overlook the fact that wedded and bedded are the same thing Lady . . .”

She scowled at him contemptuously and he couldn’t help but smirk, which was probably the wrong thing to do as it seemed to make her even angrier, but the flush on her cheeks just made him want her more. 

“. . . and I’ll agree not to bed you . . .”

She snorted and gave him a condescending look that said ‘Not even when the seven hells freeze over.’

“. . . until you beg me to.”

Her hard grey eyes flicked momentarily away before returning to meet his. There was just a hint of uncertainty there. He knew it! She wasn’t quite as sure of her ability to resist him as she wanted to be.

“The seven hells will freeze over before I beg you for anything,” she said with a quite convincing sneer. He wondered if she was trying to convince herself of it as much as him.

“Then you agree?”

She shrugged, “It won’t matter. It won’t happen,” she said dismissively.

“Do not think of twisting out of this Arya,” He bent his head to hers and growled against her ear, “Remember - A Stark doesn’t break their promise.” 

The warm, sexual smell of her sent his blood racing, demanding he take her, willing or not. He took a deep breath, hoping it would calm his raging desire, only to find her heady scent in his nostrils fanned the flames of his lust even higher. “Ask me to bed you and I will take that precious virginity.”

Slipping to the side, she laughed, “I am certain my virginity is quite safe.”

He blew out the breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. She might be certain of her ability to resist him, but he was by no means certain his own self control would survive their wedding night.

He held his hand out to her. “Since you agreed to wed, shall we?”

With a sly smile that would have withered a lesser man, she ignored his hand and instead giggled, “Wed or dead Gendry.” 

Turning her back on him, she strode towards the heart tree, shouting back over her shoulder, “I don’t intend to die today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG thanks to Brazilian Guy for his help and patience with this one. Hopefully it won’t be quite as long until the next.


	7. Wedded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start – sorry for the delay (again). Real life got in the way again. 
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be called “Wedded & bedded”, but unfortunately that turned out to be too much to squeeze into one chapter. The good news is that most of the “bedded” part is written, so it should be posted on Friday. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience and for still being here.

“Valar Morghulis,” Arya murmured under her breath as she stalked back towards the heart tree and her people. But that, oh-so-familiar oath, offered no comfort today. The problem was - she couldn’t kill him. Gendry wasn’t just another man due to receive the Gift and hadn’t she turned her back on the god of death? 

She wasn’t ‘No one’ anymore. She was Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell and, whether she liked it or not, Gendry was her Lord. 

But that wasn’t the whole truth. If she’d been forced to wed the Bolton bastard or bloody Tyrion Lannister, she could easily have killed them without a second thought, but Gendry was different. He was . . . well, Gendry. True, she hadn’t thought on him in years, but now, when she did, it wasn’t the horrors and despair of their time together she remembered; it was Tom O’Sevens and his bawdy songs, Anguy and his freckles, old Lem, Hot Pie and Beric and her wanting Gendry to be part of her pack. All these years later and she was still without a pack, still the lone wolf and that was just the way she liked it. 

Yet it was strange how time and distance seemed to soften the jagged edges of memory and pain. If she hadn’t been so determined to be angry, Arya might have let the smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth come.

She wasn’t that frightened little girl anymore and Gendry wasn’t that stupid, bull headed, bastard boy. He was still bull headed, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. He’d been far too clever so far; scheming, arrogant, conniving, lying and it was no wonder she hated him, given the way he’d tricked her. He was no boy either. He was big and strong and some foolish women no doubt thought him handsome. She wondered if King Robert had really looked like Gendry when he was young and if her father would have approved of their match. 

With a start, Arya realised she had actually considered this marriage was thinking of Gendry quite fondly, so she gave herself a mental shake. Gendry was a lying, arrogant rat bastard and he was using her to get what he wanted. But the seven hells would freeze over before he would get everything he wanted.

“Lady Arya,” old woman Cassel called out as Arya approached the Heart Tree. 

Her son Jory had been Captain of the Winterfell Guard in Arya’s father’s time. Now the shrunken old grandmother was the self appointed spokesperson for Winterfell’s smallfolk. She had been against sending all the men to the Wall and, although she would never dare criticise Arya directly, the old lady’s tone held the ever present ‘I told you so’.

“We know nothing about that man, except that he speaks like a Southerner,” old woman Cassel said, the disgust in her voice clear for all to hear. Gendry being the Commander of a conquering army was bad enough, but his not being from the North was undoubtedly an even greater sin in the old woman’s rheumy eyes.

“How do we know we can trust him? He hasn’t even told us what House he’s from and yet he’s to be Lord of Winterfell?”

Arya looked from one thin, old, careworn face to another and at the hopeful, hungry faces of the children, all waiting for her word. She was a Stark, their Lady and they had put their faith in her. She had barely got them through the winter and she wasn’t about to let them down now. Although she would never admit it to him, Winterfell needed Gendry and everything he brought with him. If Winterfell was to grow strong again, this alliance had to succeed and that meant they all had to work together. Looking around the expectant smallfolk, Arya felt the weight of her mother’s words as never before - Family. Duty. Honour.

Her family was not limited to House Stark; it wasn’t defined by blood. There were ties of loyalty to Winterfell and its people that she could never escape, no matter how far she travelled. Responsibility for her family meant she had to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to secure their future. Duty and honour demanded she hold to her bargain. 

So Arya found herself defending the arrangement she hated. 

Squaring her shoulders and adopting the voice Izambaro had taught her would carry to the furthest reaches of the stage in the Gate, she declared, 

“I have signed a contract with Queen Daenerys and I will honour it. My Lord is Robert Baratheon’s son. He took the Twins for the Iron Throne and brought me Walder Frey’s head as my wedding gift. I accept him as my Lord . . . and so shall you.”

Gasps of awe and surprise filled the glade as necks craned to look over her shoulder at the man King Robert sired. Arya thought Izambaro would have been pleased with her performance. Perhaps Tyrion wasn’t the only one who should have been a mummer.

Old woman Cassel nodded sagely, apparently satisfied with Arya’s theatrical announcement and a hundred pairs of eyes drifted from Arya to a point over her shoulder. Without having to look, Arya had already known Gendry was behind her. She felt his heat and breathed in the scent of him; metal and horse and something indefinably potent and very male.

He laid two heavy hands upon her shoulders and bent down to murmur against her ear, “I am delighted to hear you accept me as your Lord.” 

Although his breath was hot, it made her shiver. 

“Does this mean you’ve decided to accept me into your bed tonight?”

“Never,” she hissed through gritted teeth, while still maintaining her smile for old woman Cassel and the rest. Gods, but he was the most irritating man. He’d already got what he wanted; a name and a castle. Did he intend to repeat this same, repulsive request at every opportunity? Perhaps she could kill him after all.

Lifting his head, Gendry spoke loudly for the benefit of those watching, “Your cloak My Lady.” His deft hands began to unfasten her fur cloak. 

Arya forced herself to say nothing and keep her eyes fixed straight ahead. Warm, sure fingers brushed against the cool, bare skin of her throat, raising goosebumps with every stroke. She hated anyone touching her, yet found herself imagining his hands drifting lower to caress her breasts, her teats tingling as he rubbed hard thumbs over them. With a great deal of effort, she banished that unwanted and disturbing image from her mind.

Having him near affected her in ways she couldn’t control. It was as unsettling as it was annoying. Discipline over her mind and body had become a way of life in the House of Black and White, yet standing next to him made her react in ways she despised and it seemed she was powerless to stop it. 

Once the ties on her cloak were undone, he took it from her shoulders, bundled it up and threw it to a waiting knight. All his knights seemed to have gathered in the Godswood now, ready to bear witness to their Commander’s union with Winterfell’s Lady. 

Bending the knee, the nearest knight offered up two cloaks of the purest white fur. Gendry took one solemnly, carefully shaking it out and holding it up to display the grey Direwolf – Arya’s sigil and soon to be his. Above them the leaves began to move again, as if stirred into life by the billowing white cloak.

“Wedding Gifts from Lady Sansa Stark, to her sister and her good-brother.” Gendry announced. “My good-sister is now the Lady of Highgarden and has renounced all claims to Winterfell.” Gendry cleverly reinforced the fact that their marriage was sanctioned by Lady Sansa and that the elder Stark sister was no threat to his position as Lord of Winterfell. His speech brought more gasps of surprise from the audience and left Arya wondering how she could ever have thought him stupid.  
.   
Gendry gently draped the snow white cloak across Arya’s shoulders as the Heart Tree’s soft whisper of “Stark, Stark, Stark,” filled the air. The fur was soft as the first brush of snowflakes against her skin. Warm, sure hands fastened the silver clip around her neck. She gave another involuntary shiver that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with his fingers lightly caressing her skin. 

Arya was determined to keep her eyes fixed straight ahead. She had to endure this ceremony, but she intended for it to be as formal and as impersonal as possible. But then he dropped to one knee before her. Taken by surprise, she stared down into his deep, blue eyes. His face was raised towards her, his expression sincere and yet determined and it tugged at something deep inside her, something she intended to keep buried.

This time when he spoke, his words were not merely a show for those around them; they were soft and they were for her alone. “I pledge my life and my honour, everything that I am and everything I have to you, for so long as I may live.”

Arya was dumbfounded. This was a forced marriage, an arrangement that merely suited them both. Why had he made such a personal oath? She had never asked it of him; had never expected it and was unsure how to respond. Her first thought - to scoff and tell him to get up, seemed wildly inappropriate in the circumstances. 

The customary acknowledgment for any oath taken on bended knee was to lay a hand upon the head of the kneeler. Unable to think of any other response, Arya tentatively reached out, intending to briefly touch his black hair, but he caught her outstretched hand in his. Pressing her fingers against his cheek, he kissed her palm. 

His lips were surprisingly soft in contrast to the coarse scrape of his beard. Shocked by such unexpected tenderness, Arya jerked her hand away as if he’d scalded her. She smoothed her palm down the fur of her cloak, in a vain attempt to wipe away the memory of his mouth against her skin. Then she realised what she had done. It was only a kiss. It might even have been a kiss of allegiance or respect, yet she had reacted like a terrified maid who had never been kissed before, when she most certainly had. Many, many times before. 

Mortified, Arya opened her mouth, intent on explaining, perhaps apologizing, only to close it again when the corners of his mouth tugged up into a sly smile. Blue eyes sparkled with amusement. Damn him. The rat bastard was laughing at her again. He’d done it deliberately and she’d responded exactly as he hoped she would; becoming flustered and with an embarrassing hot flush on her cheeks. This was all just a game to him; a game to get her to spread her legs. But she knew how to play that game only too well; she’d be taught to use every weapon and, to her, sex was just another weapon. So he found it amusing to tease her. She wondered if he’d find it quite so funny when he was on the receiving end.

Taking the second cloak from the knight, Arya leaned over Gendry, her cloak and her loose hair falling about them, shielded both their faces from their audience. He was still on bended knee. Everyone would think she only intended to fasten the cloak around his neck. But she had other ideas. She bent down lower than was necessary, until the tops of her breasts, pushed up and displayed by her dress, were level with his face. Hidden by the curtain of her hair, his eyes flicked from her face to her breasts and stayed there. She leaned towards him, feeling his warm breath on her exposed skin as she brought the cloak around his shoulders. They were so close; he could almost have licked the tops of her breasts. His eyes were hooded, his breathing had changed, coming fast and ragged. Had they not been surrounded by hundreds of witnesses, Arya had no doubt he would have tried to pull her to him and press his mouth against her skin. All men were the same.

As she brought the ends of the silver clip together, she whispered in his ear, “I’ll never beg you,” smiling to herself as she imagined his frustration. He was the one who wanted to play games and it served him right if his balls turned blue.

Unable to resist one final taunt, she swept her tongue around the sensitive shell of his ear. She felt him shudder as she finally fastened the clip, before she raised her head to stare impassively at his knights.

Only Gendry’s fist braced in the moss had kept him steady as Arya practically rubbed her breasts against his face. When he’d felt the pointed tip of her tongue in his ear, he’d have sold his soul to the Stranger to have her in a featherbed. But they were in the Godswood, in the middle of a wedding ceremony and he’d been unable to even touch her. But it had still taken all of his self control not to. 

With a wry snort, he realised that having an audience wouldn’t have stopped his father; it would probably have spurred the old fucker on. But Gendry had spent his whole adult life trying to be a better man than his father, so he kept his hands to himself. 

There was no doubt he deserved what she’d given him. He shouldn’t have laughed at her reaction to his oath, but Gods she was so easy to tease. The blush that had swept from the tops of her small, perfect breasts to her cheeks had pleased him no end. He enjoyed seeing her as distracted as he felt.

It took him a long moment to gather himself together enough to stand up, by which time Arya was smiling and accepting the cheers and congratulations of his knights and her people. If she thought to teach him a lesson by tormenting him like that, she underestimated him. He couldn’t have dragged himself so far from Flea Bottom without a will of iron. Arya didn’t realise she was playing games with the king of determination.

Gendry stood by her side as they accepted the cheers from their audience, but he was finding it quite hard to keep his mind on the here and now. It kept drifting back to the delicious smell of her and the feel of her hair cascading around him like a curtain of silk. He wondered if she realised all she had to do was snap her fingers and he’d come running. Some will of iron. 

Once the noise had died down, he held out his arm for her. She only hesitated for a moment before she smiled quite graciously and accepted it. 

As they walked away from the heart tree, she said softly, “I feel guilty My Lord.”

He nearly choked on his surprise. Was he about to receive an apology? From Arya?

“You do?”

“Yes,” she murmured, looking up at him through thick lashes. “I feel I put you in a terrible position. You felt obliged to swear an oath to me.”

He’d made that oath up on the spur of the moment, but it had come from his heart. He certainly hadn’t felt ‘obliged’ to do it. Was she up to something? He racked his brains, but came up with nothing. Perhaps she felt guilty for being a less than willing wife. But he doubted it.

“I wanted to do it and I meant every word,” he said warily.

She shook her head, “No, I cannot accept it. It’s my fault for giving you my oath first. You simply felt obliged to give me yours in return, but don’t worry I won’t hold you to yours.”

What did she mean she didn’t intend to hold him to his oath? Was she trying to wriggle out of this marriage already?

“I’ve never broken an oath Arya and I never will,” he said firmly.

“Do feel so strongly about all oaths, that once made they cannot be broken except by death?” she asked, her face pale and serious.

“I do,” he confirmed.

“So do I,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. “At least we agree on that.”

“Yes,” he said, relaxing somewhat, feeling as if he had passed some kind of test.

“So you won’t be angry when I stand by my oath – to die before I give you my virginity?” she asked with a smirk.

Damn her. She’d set a trap for him and he’d walked right into it. She didn’t look so pale and worried now. She looked like the cat that got the cream. But she’d learn he had a few tricks of his own. 

“Licking a man is not the way to keep your virginity safe My Lady.” 

“Did I lick you?” she gasped in mock horror, “I certainly wasn’t aware of it. Do you have a fever My Lord? Perhaps you are imagining things?” She suggested sweetly.

The little liar. He should have been outraged that she told him such a bare-faced, blatant lie, but to his surprise, he laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much. Bedding her was going to be all the sweeter because she was making him chase her. He had a fever all right and Arya Stark was the cause.

Arya was quite pleased by the way things were going. She could play this game for years. After all, no one was more practiced at being someone else than she was – she’d been pretending her whole life. She would play the willingly wedded wife in public and in private he could kiss her arse. Not literally of course. Gods, his mouth anywhere near there was the last thing she wanted, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun and she was. 

“So what now My Lord?” she asked, “Perhaps you should see a Maester for your fever? Alas we don’t have one here. I suggest you ride back to King’s Landing with all possible haste.”

“I’m hoping to cool my fever tonight. A release of pent up energy should help. Don’t you agree?”

She huffed while he grinned. “Meanwhile, I think we should take a tour of the battlements.” 

A slight frown creased Arya’s brow. Although it disappeared quickly, Gendry wondered what it was about the battlements that displeased her so. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

The walked together in silence for some time as his knights fell into line behind them. Gendry savoured the scent of her drifting to his nose, seeping into his bones; enchanting, evocative, erotic. It was impossible not to let his mind wander to the bedding. Tonight . . . he hoped. He was beginning to regret making that bargain with her. Even an iron will could snap if subjected to enough strain. 

To his surprise, Arya leaned in to him. He enjoyed having her close for a moment, before he realised it was just another ploy. She whispered conspiratorially, “I think we are doing a good job of convincing everyone that we are happily wed, are we not?”

It was Gendry’s turn to frown. He was certainly happily wed, but her statement implied she was not. While he didn’t expect her to be ecstatic about the way they had come to be wed, surely she could see it was for the best? At least her people would be fed and protected from now on. He decided he would play along with her. For now.

“Yes, I suppose we are, when in reality we are . . . what?” he asked, suspecting he wasn’t going to like her reply.

“Forced into an arrangement neither of us would have chosen – had we a choice,” she said airily, “Still, I am beginning to see the benefits for both sides.”

“Oh?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation light. Had he the choice of every woman in Westeros, he would still have chosen her. Hearing her say aloud that she would not have chosen him, felt like a stab to his heart. 

Arya sneaked a sidelong glance at him, hoping she was irritating him. Gendry ran a hand through his hair, which she took to be a sign of success. She’d never got to touch his hair when he knelt in the Godswood. She wondered what it felt like. It looked thick and soft, like the fur on a wolf cub. She gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her? Why was she comparing him to a wolf? He was a snake in the grass.

“The benefits for you are obvious - you get my name, a Lordship and Winterfell and I get . . . “

“A good man in your bed?” he interrupted.

She scowled. “I was going to say - food, supplies and an army.”

He snorted, “Technically it’s Daenerys’ army.”

“But I thought you said they would follow you through the seven hells?” 

“They would,” he said confidently and if sounded rather smug, then surely it was justified. He knew for a fact neither Jaime nor Aegon could depend on such unwavering loyalty from their men.

Arya looked up at him with her most innocent, guileless expression, and whispered, “Even if you wanted to claim your birthright?”

“Bastards have no rights,” he said with all the patience he could muster. Was she deliberately trying to provoke him? Maybe she enjoyed poking vipers with sticks too.

“I’ll rephrase that. Even if you wanted to claim your father’s throne?”

“Don’t,” he growled sharply, hoping to the seven hells none of his men had heard that. Mercifully they were keeping a respectful distance back to allow him to talk to Arya in private. “Don’t ever suggest that again. My loyalties lie with the Queen and House Targaryen.”

“And not your new House, the North or even your Lady wife?” she gasped, slapping her hand to her chest and feigning distress.

He inhaled deeply; he’d fallen into her trap. Again. Was every conversation with her going to be a battle of wits and wills? 

“And to House Stark and to the North and to you,” he agreed with a sigh.

“I hope you are not spreading your loyalties too thin My Lord.” 

Mercifully they had reached the foot of the stairs that led to the top of Winterfell’s massive, protective wall and he had a respite from the constant verbal sparring. He’d much rather she was coming at him with a sword than all with all these barbed comments with double meanings. He was a man of action, not words and all this talk was beginning to make his head hurt.

“After you My Lady,” he said with a gallant sweep of his hand.

And have his climb up after her with his face inches away from her arse? Arya thought not.

“Surely it is a wife’s duty to follow where her Lord leads,” Arya countered with a little curtsey that belied the sarcasm in her voice. 

His men were now arrayed close behind and his patience had worn through. He hoped his men didn’t suspect the trouble he was having trying to get his wife to walk up a flight of stairs.

Turning his back to his men, he hissed, “Get up the fucking stair Arya or, Gods help me, I’ll throw you over my shoulder.” 

“You could try,” she challenged, still smiling sweetly.

Behind him, someone stifled a snigger.

“Don’t make me do it Arya. You’ll only end up with your arse up in the air and your skirts down around your head.” 

Arya growled through her teeth. Gendry had no way of knowing she wore no small clothes under the stupid dress, but she wasn’t going to take the chance that he would find out, much less his men. Gods, but he was the most stubborn man she had ever met.

Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, she wondered why she’d even bothered to engage in a conversation with him in the first place. From now on, she would simply ignore him she decided, starting up the stone steps. 

As she had predicted, she felt his eyes on her arse. Well, better his eyes than any other part of him. Perhaps it would have been more fun to tell him she wasn’t wearing small clothes just to see the shock on his face, she thought with a wicked smirk. 

To her surprise, more men were waiting on the battlements; lots more men, armed with longbows and quivers full of arrows. They all bowed respectfully to her, except the eldest, a grey haired man who had a hard air of experienced authority about him.

Gendry greeted him, by name – Peake. Arya thought it a name from the Reach, but she couldn’t be sure. He carried himself like a Lord, but the golden rings on his arm suggested otherwise. 

“I need to speak to you about the defences,” the grey haired man said. He greeted Gendry as an equal while ignoring her. Arya took an instant dislike to him.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

Peake gave Arya a wary glance. She gave him an icy one back.

“Anything you need to say to me about our defences, you can also say to My Lady.” 

Peake pursed his lips and looked as if he was about to object, but Gendry snapped, “Out with it,” leaving the man no option but to continue, although he avoided looking at Arya as he spoke.

“Very well. The walls are down to a single layer of stone in several places and could easily be breached. A hard shove with a strong horse would do it.”

Gendry nodded, his brows drawn together. “I presume you’ve already started the necessary repairs?”

“Of course,” Peake replied with a tight, smug grin.

Arya felt her face flame with embarrassment and shame. Maintaining the walls was a perpetual problem and, while she had done everything she could to maintain the illusion of impregnability, the severe frosts had taken a heavy toll on the stones. The old man was correct; the walls might look solid, but in too many places they were woefully inadequate. Arya knew it. But she did not like hearing it, especially from a man like Peake. 

“Another problem is the length of wall we have to guard. Are we doing the usual –stationing each guard in clear sight of the next?”

“Of course,” Gendry confirmed.

“Then I reckon we’re going to need at least 200 men per shift.”

The new Lord of Winterfell gave a long, low whistle as he calculated the number of men he was going to need. Three shifts per day, plus training and rest meant he’d need to assign a pool of 1,000 men to guard the walls alone and that didn’t include the stonemasons and labourers required to carry out the urgent repairs. Gendry had known Winterfell was huge but he hadn’t realised the enormity of his task.

As Gendry hesitated, Peake began, “If you think that too many . . .” 

“No. We’ll do it the way we always do.” 

Finally turning his attention and his hard, black eyes to Arya, Peake said, “Aye, we’ll do it right.” 

No one could miss what Peake implied – that Arya had done it wrong. The worst of it was, Arya had no doubt her father would have agreed. 

“Winterfell survived the winter unscathed. Let us hope we fare as well,” Gendry snapped at Peake. He bowed his head respectfully, but for Arya, the damage had already been done and everyone had heard it. 

“It seems you have matters well in hand and that I am not needed here,” Arya said, turning on her heel, wishing she had some clever, biting retort to throw back at the cold, grey man, but she had none. How could she, when her failings as a leader were so obvious? As calmly as she could, she headed towards for the stairs they had climbed only moments ago. As soon as she was sure she was out of sight, she ran, with her new white cloak, billowing out behind her.

She heard Gendry bark out something angry and indistinguishable, but she didn’t care what he said. She only knew had to get away from here. 

Unfortunately, more men stood at the foot of the stair. Years of training had made her footsteps effortlessly light and silent. They never heard her approach, but she heard them.

“What the fuck are we doing, making concessions to these Northerners? Have you seen the state of their walls? We could have been over them in half a day.”

“Over them?” another scoffed, “More like through them! They’ve got no men and no weapons. We should just take what we want. Instead we’re giving them all our food?! Bugger this shit,” he swore and spat on the ground.

Arya stopped dead on the stair, just as Gendry called out her name from above.

Hearing his voice, the men looked up to see Arya standing above them and their Commander, already looking none too pleased, at the top of the stair. They wisely scattered, leaving Arya free to finish her hasty descent. 

She should have been able to outrun him easily, but she was hampered by her stupid dress. Even hoisting it up to her knees didn’t help, as her stupid shoes were made to look pretty, not for outrunning angry knights. She wasn’t surprised when he caught up with her half way across the yard, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. 

“Don’t you trust me to do what’s best here? What’s best for Winterfell? For . . . us?”

He was going to say “for you”, but Winterfell was his now too and he wanted her to remember it. 

Steeling himself for another fight, he was surprised when she said quietly, “It seems you are quite capable of rectifying all Winterfell’s problems.” For the first time, she wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

“Peake is Daenerys’ man. I don’t like him, but he’s good at what he does. He won’t disrespect you again.” 

No sour, insolent retort? No angry glares? No taunting him? Loosening his iron grip on her elbow, he led her off towards an alcove in the walls, where they would be out of sight of the men above. When she didn’t even try to shake off his hand he knew something was very wrong. 

Standing in the shadows, he tried to explain, “We need to defend our position. It’s every commander’s first priority. That’s all I’m doing Arya.” 

Still, she said nothing and seemed to be fascinated by a patch of lichen over his shoulder. Taking her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger he turned her head. She half heartedly tried to turn it back the other way, but he was stronger, more determined and above all, concerned. He tilted her head up so she had to look at him. To his surprise, her eyes were shimmering. He’d never wanted her more than he did in that moment. When she was taunting him, when she was raging at him, he could just about resist the temptation, but seeing her eyes so full of pain and fury, need and defiance, undid him.

He had already begun to lower his head with the intention of gently brushing his lips against hers, when she blurted out, “It’s not fair!” and the moment was ruined.

He blew out a long, frustrated sigh. Surely she had learned by now that life wasn’t fair? Pointing that out to her now was unlikely to help matters. He realised she was shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was with rage or something else. Something worse.

She closed her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. “You just turn up out of the blue and you’ve got all these men and horses and you just fix things. You make it seem so easy and it isn’t.”

Gendry stared down at her for a long, thoughtful moment and that damn ache in his chest began again. Shadows of exhaustion lurked below her eyes and she looked pale and vulnerable. 

She’d struggled all winter to keep her people alive with no help, no allies, nothing except her own strength of will. He’d been careful to make sure to defer to her in front of her own people, but he’d slipped into issuing orders and behaving as he always did to his own men. He hadn’t given a thought to how his coming here and issuing commands in her home would affect her. Gods he was a fool. But he didn’t need her going to pieces now. He’d planned this feast tonight as a show of unity. He needed her people to see that she had wed him of her own free will, seven hells, he needed his men to see it too, as Peake would undoubtedly be reporting back to Daenerys. He needed Arya by his side tonight. If she wasn’t there, refused to go, ran away or some other damn thing, then his men would think he hadn’t got the grip on Winterfell he should have and her people would blame him for any slight to their Lady. 

This wasn’t just about him and what he needed. Arya was on the edge, he could see it, and if she went to pieces tonight, the damage might be irreparable. But she was tough and strong and brave. She always had been. She’d endured everything the war and the winter had thrown at her and she’d coped with it all because she was angry. 

He’d never seen her cry, but he could tell she was close now. If he let her succumb to those tears, Gods only knew when she would stop or what she would do. There would be a time for that, but it wasn’t now and it certainly wasn’t tonight. He didn’t need unpredictable, emotional Arya, he needed her hating him – he could deal with that. The best way to keep Arya going, to keep her where she needed to be, was to keep her angry with him. Arya was tough. She’d keep on hating him and she’d get through tonight. He knew what he had to do. 

“You’re tired, you’re hungry and I know you’re impatient for the bedding tonight,” he said, giving her his best wolfish grin. 

She scowled and, quick as a snake, jabbed one finger at his neck, one of the few places exposed by his armour. He hadn’t expected that and Gods, it hurt much more than a poke from a woman’s finger should. It sent pain shooting through his bones and down his arm. But it was also perfect. Keep her furious with him and they’d be fine. 

Gendry hid the searing pain with a tight smile and quickly flattened his palm against the wall beside her head, leaning into her and at the same time stretching out his throbbing arm.

“If you’re so eager to touch me, we don’t have to wait . . .”

He tilted his head, and deliberately moved in for an open mouthed kiss, knowing she’d hate that. She would take the opportunity to escape; either that or she would stick him with a blade. He hoped it wouldn’t be the blade. 

She ducked under his arm as he hoped she would. When she was safely out of his reach, she sneered, “Have the seven hells frozen over yet? No. So don’t touch me.” 

Success! Angry Arya was back and all would be well. Lazily rolling around so the back of his head was against the wall, he cast her a sly, sideways look.

“Oh, you haven’t begged me yet, but you will. I see you watching me when you think I’m not looking. You want me, but you’re scared.”

“I am not!” She spat, “Why should I be scared of you?!”

“Because you’re wet for me now.”

“You’re disgusting!”

He shrugged and smiled, “Yet you don’t deny it.” 

Her face turned scarlet and it took all of that iron will of his not to pump the air with his fist in triumph. Instead he sighed, “Why don’t you go to the kitchens Arya? Get something to eat – it might sweeten your mood and your breath.”

She was so red and angry he thought she might explode and he didn’t know whether he should feel delighted he had more proof she wanted him, or like shit for manipulating her like this.

Cursing him loudly, Arya turned on her heel and stomped off. She had no intention of going to the kitchens or doing anything else he told her to do, she just wanted away from his odious presence.

As soon as she was around the corner and out of his sight, she cupped her hand to her mouth and exhaled as hard as she could. Her breath didn’t stink, did it? Oh, he was the most hateful, arrogant, man she had ever met. And why did he have to be so right? She did watch him when he wasn’t looking because he fascinated her; the way he moved, they way he’d changed and grown into a man. He could be a king and he would be a magnificent one. 

He’d been going to kiss her that first time, she was sure of it and she wanted to feel his lips on hers. But she’d panicked and blurted it ‘It’s not fair!’ She groaned with embarrassment. Hopefully she’d covered her mistake well and made him think she was talking about his having the resources to repair the walls, but that’s not what she meant at all. She meant it wasn’t fair that, after all his lies and tricks, despite knowing he was using her, he could still want him. She was just a means to an end for him. He’d got her name, he’d got Winterfell, but he wasn’t going to get her. She’d be better off hating him and then she wouldn’t get hurt. She thought she’d wanted Jaqen and look where that had got her. 

As she strode through the courtyard, men everywhere stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads in deference. They’d never seen her before, but her virginal white cloak marked her out as Winterfell’s Lady.

She met their greetings of “My Lady,” with either indifference, or a scowl. She didn’t want to be their lady and she particularly didn’t want to be his Lady. She just wanted to be plain old Arya Stark and for them to bugger off and leave Winterfell to her. But his men were already swarming everywhere. Horse drawn carts and soldiers continued to pour through the South Gate. More men barked orders, marched purposefully around or unloaded wagons, handing their bundles to eager Winterfell women. Children ran back and forth squealing with excitement. Arya hadn’t realised how deathly quiet Winterfell had been before until she was confronted with all this noise. Had it been like this when she was young? Was this the way it was supposed to be? That thought did nothing to improve her mood.

She decided she should get something to eat after all, but could hardly squeeze into the kitchens for the various sacks and the barrels of wine that lined the entrance, while men were bringing in yet more. Arya’s stomach growled as she passed an open crate of ripe, purple plums. She helped herself, thinking, ‘What’s yours is mine,’ as she bit into the first one. But the burst of sweetness on her tongue took her by surprise. It tasted like summer. She had almost forgotten what summer was, until a taste of sweetness reminded her. She had been a sweet, summer child once, a long, long time ago. War and then winter had made her bitter.

Arya shook her head swiftly to clear her mind of such stupid, sentimental thoughts. What was wrong with her? She never cried. Not even when her father was beheaded. Not a single tear had escaped and yet being confronted by her failings up on the battlements and the taste of a stupid plum was enough to bring a lump to her throat. She blinked and swallowed hard, sliding into the shadows in case anyone should witness her weakness.

Gendry’s cook was a large man with sandy hair. He stood in the middle of the kitchen bellowing orders and cursing everyone colourfully; they were all too slow, or else they were too quick to drop their sack in the wrong place. The cuts of meat were too big and the vegetables were being chopped too small. Arya hoped his cooking was as enthusiastic and inspired as his swearing. 

A dozen Winterfell women were stationed at each of the long kitchen tables enthusiastically kneading dough, while casting surreptitious glances at the men bringing in the supplies. The soldiers seemed just as interested in the women. As Arya watched, one young lad walked straight into the back of another because he was too busy making eyes at a giggling maid to look where he was going. 

The rest of the women and the soldiers erupted in gales of laughter as the lad’s heavy sack landed on his foot and he hopped around, cursing while potatoes rolled in all directions.

Cook scooped up a rolling potato and launched it at the lad’s head.

“Keep your eyes on the job if you want to eat tonight,” Cook threatened the soldiers. “And girls, keep your hands on that dough. These fine southern men need fed. Keep their strength up and they’ll give you a better seeing to tonight.” 

Cook’s advice was met by raucous laughter from the women. It seemed they had worked up quite an appetite over the long, lonely winter and it wasn’t only for food. 

“Mark my words girls! The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Arya thought going through a man’s ribs to get to his heart with a long, pointed blade was less considerably less messy than going through his stomach. Plus it didn’t stink so badly. But only she would be thinking about death while everyone else was thinking about food or sex. It looked as if there was going to be a lot of sex tonight, Arya thought dismally. 

Throwing Winterfell’s women together with Gendry’s men, adding food and wine into the mix made the sedate, formal feast she had imagined look like a naive fantasy. Even when the guests hadn’t been sex starved all winter, a bedding always encouraged bawdy behaviour.

This time Arya couldn’t stifle her groan of dismay. The bedding. She had almost forgotten. 

Cook must have had hearing like a bat, as he swivelled around and shouted, “You lurking back there, show yourself, you work-shy little . . .”

Fortunately he didn’t finish his insult; his mouth dropping open the moment Arya emerged from the shadows. As did hers. 

After all these years, it couldn’t be . . . could it? 

“Hot Pie!” “Arry!” they yelled together.

“I mean, Lady Arya of course,” Hot Pie corrected himself in a fluster as he bowed as low as his big belly would allow.

“What are you doing here?” Arya gasped, surprising herself with how excited she was to see him again.

When Hot Pie straightened up, his piggy eyes had lit up with excitement. He took two steps towards her as if he was about to embrace her and then stopped suddenly, as if remembering the chasm between their positions. 

“Forgive me, for not greeting you properly My Lady,” he muttered wringing his podgy hands together, “But I was right excited to see you.”

“And I’m excited to see you too,” Arya smiled, feeling as awkward as Hot Pie looked. She wanted to be ‘Arry’ and to greet him with a hug, as she once would have. But Arry was long gone, buried under layers of other names and faces.

“He sent a dozen knights to fetch me,” Hot Pie explained, grinning. “Imagine that. You should have seen old Sharna’s face when they rode up to the Inn flying their Targaryen banners and asking for me by name.”

“You were still at the Inn of the Kneeling Man?” Arya asked incredulously. She had gone so far and done so much and yet Hot Pie had stayed right where they’d left them. It was somehow reassuring to know not everything and everyone had changed.

“Aye,” he said proudly, puffing out his barrel chest, “Still making the best bread in all of Westeros. People came from far and wide to taste Hot Pie’s food they did, but I’m only cooking for you now,” he said proudly. “You and Gendry of course,” he added quickly, “And the rest of this lot,” he nodded behind him at the dumbstruck men and women. 

“Back to work!” he barked when he noticed they’d all stopped working to listen. 

“Don’t you worry Arry . . . erm, Lady Arya. Hot Pie will have them licked into shape in no time. I had three boys working for me at the Inn and even old Sharna did what I told her,” he added with wink, “I can handle this lot.”

“I’m sure you can,” Arya laughed, certain that nothing and no one could come between Hot Pie and his cooking, “And I can’t wait until tonight to taste your bread again.”

Her stomach rumbled right on cue. 

“Your belly knows when a good thing is coming. Don’t you worry My Lady, Hot Pie will see your belly all right. I’ll have you and the rest of them scrawny ladies fattened up in no time. You mark my words!”

When he laughed, she could not help but join in. It felt good to have Hot Pie in Winterfell and be surrounded by food and laughter.

“You’ll all be needing to loosen your corsets now Hot Pie’s here,” he said, waggling a fat finger at the women. Then he looked at Arya in surprise as if just noticing she was wearing a dress, “You look like a proper Lady now. Right pretty. No wonder he was in such a hurry to get here.” 

Hot Pie’s big faced flushed scarlet as if he’d just said something he shouldn’t.

Being reminded of why Gendry was here brought Arya’s happy thoughts crashing back to reality. 

“The Dragon Queen ordered him to come here and take Winterfell,” she said firmly. She didn’t want Hot Pie thinking there was anything more to it than that, because there wasn’t. 

“But some of the men say the Queen knew he wanted yo . . . err, to come here and that’s why she sent him. They say the Queen is kind and good and she gave Gendry what he wanted because he’s the best Commander she ever had. Aren’t you pleased we’re all together again? Gendry’s right happy about it.” 

“I’m sure he is,” Arya said through gritted teeth. She could tell Hot Pie that Gendry only wanted a Lordship and that he had had lied to her in order to get it, but she wouldn’t, because Hot Pie hadn’t changed at all. The innocent, hopeful expression on his face was just the same as it had always been. All Hot Pie ever wanted was to cook and as long as he had that, he would be happy. She’d called him stupid and craven and broken his nose before and what had it changed? Nothing. Telling him the truth about Gendry wouldn’t change anything either.

“I’m sorry I broke your nose,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

He shrugged. “I didn’t mind. I can still tell when something’s burning.”

She smiled too. She was glad he was here. 

“I’d better let you get on.”

“I’ll cook you a feast to remember,” Hot Pie shouted after her as she left him in his kitchen. Arya had no doubt she would never forget the feast, but it probably wasn’t going to be because of Hot Pie’s cooking. 

The courtyard was even busier now than it had been when she made her way to the kitchens. Her white cloak stood out in stark contrast to the Targaryen black and red and the bowing started again. She wanted to get rid of this cloak and get out of the stupid dress. 

At least there were fewer of Gendry’s men inside the Keep and none on the upper floors. She felt a moment’s horror when she realised the door to her room was ajar. No one from Winterfell would dare defile her private place. She angrily shoved the door open, expecting to find some thieving men, but the room was empty except for her narrow bed and bare mattress. No one would dare – except Meera. She had forgotten all about Meera’s demands that she move rooms. Meera obviously hadn’t forgotten; she had been as efficient as ever. 

If Meera thought Arya was going to share a room, never mind a bed with that arrogant man then she was very, very wrong. Arya would have to see about getting all her things moved back in – not that she had much, but she wanted it here.

She sat dejectedly on the bare mattress in the empty room and rested her chin in her hands. She was so tired of all this fighting and struggling. Was there no end to it? She wanted to be Arya Stark again, not a wife, not a lady, not an assassin, not any one of the dozens of aliases she’d lived under. She wanted to be the carefree girl again she was before the war, with nothing to do except what she wanted. It didn’t seem much to ask after she’d spent a whole winter putting other people first, but no one seemed to care what she wanted.

With a weary sigh, she realised she wasn’t only tired of fighting, she was just plain tired. She hadn’t slept at all last night and not much the night before that. The thought of trailing to her parent’s rooms to find her britches wasn’t appealing and there was also the possibility that she might bump into Gendry on the way and she didn’t feel ready to face him yet. She’d let him see her weakness on the battlements and she didn’t intend to let that happen again. She’d feel better, stronger, when she was rested. Even wolf blood needed to sleep sometimes. 

Lying down on the bare mattress, she wrapped the soft fur around her and fell instantly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t thank Brazilian Guy enough for his endless patience over what has been an extremely long, slow few weeks. You Ser are the angel on my shoulder.
> 
> His being an angel just reminded me of our initial discussions about this story. Music is a big thing with us (as I may have mentioned before) and this time we kinda each had a theme song for the way we saw the story going. If I tell you his was “Halo” by Beyonce for Arya and mine was “Undisclosed desires” by Muse for Gendry, you may see where my inspiration for some of this story came from. Our choices probably say quite a bit about us both too – he’s much nicer than I am!
> 
> So, onwards and upwards. Until next time . . .


	8. & Bedded

Gendry was frantic. He was also worried, but mostly he was frantic. Where the hell was Arya? It was getting dark and she was nowhere to be found. Their wedding feast was due to begin in a few hours and a terrible, familiar dread was beginning to settle in his gut. 

It had been years since she’d disappeared the first time, but he’d never forgotten the heart wrenching sense of helplessness and loss that he’d carried with him for far too long. In the dark times after she was gone, he’d been consumed by anger; a rage fuelled by a bone deep sense of loss that no amount of beating on metal could ease. As time and the war went by, he’d channelled that anger into his ambition; if Arya Stark ever came back, he intended to be worthy of her.

Gradually his need to prove himself overtook his sense of loss and his obsession with her became an obsession to claim his father’s name. The king of determination had forged his iron will in the flames of loss and longing.

Tobho said he was born to wield a hammer, but the old man was only partly right. Gendry was born to wield a war hammer. Gendry hadn’t seen it at the beginning, but others had. Brienne had. He shook his head as he recalled his conversation with Tyrion the night before. Jon Aryn’s last words were that his father’s blood was strong. Gendry knew it was true; it was the only explanation for his success on the battlefield. He hadn’t had a Master at Arms training him in the ways of war since birth, but he’d had something much more potent – king’s blood. What Gendry had initially thought of as a curse, became his gift; with a war hammer in his hand, he was unstoppable.

Gendry supposed instead of cursing his father, he should thank the drunken fuck. Not only for his prowess in battle, but for leaving him in the Flea Bottom gutter. Had Gendry been born into a life of ease, as a king’s son should have, he might have pissed away the iron determination that drove him from one victory to the next. Instead he had relentlessly pursed his dreams of legitimacy and his dreams of Arya Stark. Daenerys had denied him one of those dreams. He had no intention of being denied the other. 

It had already been a long day. He had removed his armour long ago and still felt a great weight upon his shoulders. He had walked walls and courtyards and halls, assessing defences, assigning men, ordering the return of wagons to King’s Landing, dictated a request to Daenerys for more supplies, sent messengers to carry the news of his wedding across the North and all the while he had been trailed by what seemed like a never ending stream of men bringing him reports or seeking orders. He’d even checked on Hot Pie’s preparations for the feast. That was how he knew it was the last time anyone had seen Arya, hours before.

Unable to stop thinking about her and fearing he’d been too harsh on her at the battlements, he was anxious to see her, but there was no sign of her anywhere. He couldn’t help but think on the last time she’d disappeared without a trace. But this time he had 6,000 men at his disposal and, if he had to, he’d have them comb every inch of Westeros and bloody Braavos until he found her. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.

His frustration was compounded by the fact that he couldn’t risk letting his men see how frantic he was becoming. What sort of Lord lost his Lady before the wedding feast? Discreet enquires got him nowhere. No one had seen her anywhere. Unwilling to issue a direct order to search for her and risk exposing himself to ridicule, he stopped the nearest group of Winterfell woman and asked, as casually as he could, if they would find either Lady Meera or Lady Arya for him. The poor women looked so intimidated, he had no doubt his request would be followed. Meera would know where to find Arya, providing Meera could be found. 

Tyrion and Meera had disappeared after the Godswood. Only books or fucking would keep Tyrion occupied that long and, given that Lady Meera Reed didn’t seem the type to lift her skirts for gold, Gendry could only presume Winterfell had a hell of a lot of books. 

Bad temperedly barking orders left and right at his long suffering men, Gendry waited impatiently for his wife.

-o-

Meera was curled up in a huge leather armchair with her feet tucked under her and a glass of wine in her hand. It felt so decadent to be doing, well . . . nothing. Every day Meera worked from first light until midnight, but not today. As Tyrion said, today was a day to celebrate and he happened to have a skin of the finest wine from the Arbor for that very purpose. 

Meera had initially refused, but Tyrion’s cajoling and the intoxicating bouquet of the wine had finally won her over. She had agreed to a small glass, which admittedly Tyrion might have refilled once or twice during their most agreeable afternoon in the library. She’d never laughed so much since . . . since she couldn’t remember when.

Tyrion had an endless supply of wildly entertaining stories; how he was almost eaten by a lion in the fighting pits of Meereen, about the time he went to the Wall with Jon Snow and pissed over the far edge, how he’d only escaped being tossed out of the Moon Door in the Eyrie by a trial by combat and he even swore that Aegon Targaryen had blue hair when they’d journeyed together from Pentos to Volantis. As exotic and imaginative as those stories were, Meera’s favourite stories were of the sarcastic sellsword Bronn who was Tyrion’s champion in the Erie and who became a Lord and the brave squire Podrick who allegedly had a manhood so . . . unique that whores fought over who would lie with him - for free! 

Meera doubted any of the stories were entirely true. Surely no man could have done everything Tyrion Lannister claimed to have, but he certainly knew how to spin a tall tale. Her sides hurt, her cheeks ached, somehow her hair kept falling over her face and she was vaguely aware that her eyelids seemed to be dropping.

When the flustered maid appeared and announced that Lord Stark demanded her presence, Meera’s mind was perhaps not as steady as it ought to have been; in fact, when she tried to stand up, there seemed to be something wrong with her legs too. She swayed alarmingly before losing her balance, falling backwards into the huge armchair which sent her legs flying up into the air.

“Ooops,” she managed to gasp from beneath the foam of her petticoats that had somehow ended up around her neck. She should have been mortified that Tyrion and the maid had seen her smallclothes, but instead she giggled. She really shouldn’t be giggling at time like this. She needed to be serious, act like a Lady. But it seemed a bit late for that; Tyrion had just seen her bloomers. 

“Bad Meera,” she scolded herself. But instead of to herself, she might have said it aloud as Tyrion immediately mimicked her voice with a drunken slur, “Bad, bad, bad Meera.” 

His thinking her so bad, when she was really very good, seemed funnier still. Meera tried to sit up to tell him so, but the leather chair was a lot slippier than she remembered and she fell back, sliding down the smooth leather until she somehow found herself looking up at the library ceiling. And it was moving. That was new. She’d never noticed that the library had a spinning ceiling before.

“Ooooooops,” she giggled again.

“His Lordship ain’t going to be happy,” the maid wailed. 

Meera scolded herself again and more enthusiastically this time, “Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad Meera.” 

She knew she should get up and do her duty, but somehow she couldn’t seem to get out of this chair.

“I shall rescue you Lady Reed!” Tyrion’s voice said from somewhere distant. She felt the chair shift and then Tyrion’s face appeared above her.

“Did no one ever tell you not to drink on an empty stomach?”

Meera shook her head. “Neber.” 

That didn’t come out right. She tried again, “Nebber. Nebber.”

Still not right. She settled for another shake of her head instead, but that made Tyrion’s face sway alarmingly.

“Please stop moving,” she sighed. It took an awful lot of effort to talk. 

“Give me your hands,” he chuckled and proceeded to haul her up, but that made everything, including her own head spin. With a groan, she collapsed backwards, dragging him with her. 

With a surprised “Oof!” he landed on top of her, his face and his lips just a breath away from hers, his legs between hers, their fingers entwined. 

Neither of them moved an inch, although the air seemed to crackle around them. 

“Meera . . .” he started softly, a glint in his mismatched eyes.

This couldn’t, shouldn’t, be happening. “Don’t,” she managed to whisper, a moment before her stomach convulsed.

Tyrion barely had time to jump back and the maid only just managed to fetch a plant pot before Meera cast up all that sweet Arbour wine.

 

-o-

 

Gendry had no idea what the hell had gone on between Tyrion and Lady Meera. When they arrived with the maid they were both reeking of wine; Meera was dishevelled and sheepish, while Tyrion was most attentive to her. Surely Lady Meera hadn’t lifted her skirts for the imp already? He could hardly ask and Tyrion wouldn’t meet his questioning gaze. But that little mystery would have to wait. Gendry had enough of his own problems without getting involved in theirs.

Making sure they were out of earshot of anyone else, Gendry confided that he’d lost Arya.

“Lost?” Meera repeated incredulously. 

When she looked up at him, Gendry saw her eyes were bloodshot. Surely she hadn’t been crying? Gendry glared accusingly at Tyrion, but he was single-mindedly focusing all his attention on Meera and studiously avoiding Gendry.

“Yes, lost,” Gendry repeated. “We need to find her before the feast.”

“Of course we do,” Meera agreed, thankfully seeming to grasp the consequences of Arya not being seen at her own wedding celebration. “When did you last see her?” 

“We went to the battlements after the Godswood and I haven’t seen her since.”

Lady Reed gave him a wary, assessing look. “Perhaps I asked the wrong question. Were you arguing?”

Damn, Lady Meera was perceptive, but he wasn’t about to start explaining himself to her.

“A little.” he said stonily.

Meera considered pressing for more information, but decided against it. She didn’t need it spelled out to her; she could well imagine what happened. The new Lord Stark would have pointed out what Arya already knew and didn’t want to hear – exactly how precarious Winterfell’s defences were. But Arya wouldn’t have gone far; even if they had argued. Meera supposed it was touching that Lord Stark was so concerned, worry was etched into his handsome face, but he obviously didn’t know Arya very well. She wouldn’t turn and run. Arya was a fighter. She might have retreated in order to lick her wounds, but she’d be back, ready to come out fighting.

The biggest mystery here was not Arya’s whereabouts, but why Lord Stark was so anxious about her being missing for a few hours. Perhaps he had lost a loved one before. Still, Meera was tempted to scold Lord Stark for interrupting what had been a most enjoyable afternoon. Until she threw up. Instead she sighed and asked, “Have you checked the armoury?”

“No,” Gendry said bad temperdly. Had he known where it was, he might have, but he didn’t and he didn’t have the time or the patience for Meera’s inquisition.

“She likes to practice there.” 

“Practice what?”

“Water dancing of course,” Meera said over her shoulder as set off towards one of the many smaller building clustered around the Great Keep. Gendry almost laughed out loud. Water Dancing. Of course. Arya had kept it up all these years and she was obviously bloody good at it; his still aching shoulder was evidence of that. It was a good job she had only come at him with a pointed finger rather than a Braavosi blade.

Tyrion immediately set off after Meera, only to have Gendry grab the collar of his surcoat.

“Oh no you don’t,” Gendry threatened mildly as he hoisted Tyrion backwards, off his feet. 

Waiting until Lady Meera and the maid were well ahead, Gendry hissed, “You’ll walk with me and tell me what the fuck you’ve been up to with Lady Meera – and fucking better have nothing to do with it.”

Tyrion rolled his bloodshot eyes, “She’s a Lady. Of course I didn’t fuck her.” 

“You mean she wouldn’t let you?”

“Surprising as it may seem, I can occasionally manage to keep my cock in my britches.”

“Make sure you keep it there. I can do without Howland Reed and his bog devils demanding retribution for your fucking his daughter.”

“Even I wouldn’t risk cavorting with an unmarried, highborn Lady. They’re not for sport. Despoil one and you’ll have a whole House full of bloody Lords and Sers after you, demanding you wed the girl.”

“And you’d just hate to have to wed to Lady Reed wouldn’t you?” 

“Not as much as she’d hate to have to wed me,” Tyrion said glumly, leaving Gendry wishing he’d never started the damn conversation in the first place.

 

The armoury was empty – not only was there no Arya, but there were hardly any weapons; another problem Gendry intended to rectify as soon as possible, without mentioning it to Arya. Surely she had to appreciate he was only doing his best to protect her and Winterfell too. With a sigh, he realised she had never been particularly reasonable or willing to listen to him before. He was probably being foolish expecting that to have changed.

Meera declared they should try Arya’s room next. She set off towards the far door of the armoury, closely followed by the maid. 

“Are we going to spend the rest of the day traipsing around Winterfell?” Tyrion grumbled.

“We’ll spend the rest of the winter traipsing all over the fucking North if that’s what it takes to find her.”

Tyrion huffed and Gendry gave him a warning growl. 

“My legs are already too short. If you expect me to walk them into bloody stumps, you might at least tell me what happened. While I’d like to think it was only a maiden’s shock when confronted by the size of your cock that sent your Lady wife running off, I suspect it was more likely something you said.”

First Meera and now Tyrion – always asking questions. Gendry was beginning to realise they were too damn alike and one of them had been bad enough. Gendry considered refusing to answer or downright lying. If he didn’t tell Tyrion, the imp would no doubt find out eventually – he seemed to have a knack for that. Swallowing his pride, Gendry said, 

“We fought about everything. She wouldn’t even walk up a damn flight of stairs without a fight. The men think I can’t control my wife already and if she doesn’t show up at this feast, her people will think I’ve mistreated her. Already.” Gendry shook his stupid head. “She hates me,” he said miserably.

“My dear brother, if you think that, you still have a lot to learn about women.” Tyrion chuckled, waggling his finger at Gendry, “I’ve seen you two together. She doesn’t hate you. She wants to hate you. But that isn’t the same thing at all.”

“There you go again. Speaking in bloody riddles.”

“Believe me, she hasn’t run off,” Tyrion said with a bitter little laugh, “You really think the last Stark would leave Winterfell? That’s as preposterous as a Lannister not paying his debts.”

Gendry thought about that. It did make sense. 

“It’s just . . . I lost her before,” Gendry finally admitted, “I’m worried . . . all right, I’m shit scared, I lose her again.”

“Ahhh,” Tyrion grinned, “I begin to understand. When this happened before, did she leave you of her own free will? Or was there more to it?”

Gendry scrubbed his hands over his face. Tyrion was right. Again. But why hadn’t he seen it? Instead he’d panicked. Arya hadn’t left him before because she wanted to. There were seven hells of a lot more to it than that; his wanting to stay with the Brotherhood, the Hound, the war, maybe even Jaqen H’ghar. He would need to get the truth of it from her sometime. But he had to find her first.

Up ahead, Meera and the maid had stopped outside a non-descript door. Meera waited until Gendry was at her shoulder before she pushed the door open a crack. Not even bothering to look herself, Meera whispered, “Satisfied?”

Through the gap, Gendry saw Arya asleep, curled up on her side, the dark waves of her hair spilling over the white of her cloak. She looked younger, at peace and his heart ached for her. 

Gendry nodded and let out a breath he had not even realised he was holding. Meera carefully let the door close again.

Satisfied? Not yet, he thought. But the night was still young.

 

-o-

 

Arya had heard them approach, of course, the habit of sleeping lightly had not yet left her and perhaps it never would. Four people; Meera’s footfall she knew as well as her own, the gait even shorter than Meera’s could only been the imp, the long strides and clinking spurs would be Gendry, damn him, and the last, a woman, could be one of the maids. They wanted something or else they wouldn’t be here. Arya intended to thwart their plan, whatever it was and pretended to sleep as the door opened.

She heard Meera’s whisper, Gendry soft exhale and the door close again. Strange. She was sure they had come to demand her presence somewhere. It was dark, but the moon was not yet high, so too early for the feast. Her curiosity got the better of her. She slid silently from the bed and across the floor, in order to press her ear against the door. 

Three sets of receding footsteps; Gendry, Tyrion and the maid, which left … Meera with her hand on the door. Arya took a quick step back, narrowly avoiding the door as it opened inwards.

“Seven hells!” Meera gasped in fright as she came face to face, or rather, face to chest, with Arya. “I thought you were sleeping?”

“I was. Are Gendry and Tyrion gone?” Arya asked, brushing past Meera to check the corridor.

Meera was going to ask how Arya knew who had been at the door, but decided not to waste her breath. Arya just seemed to know such things instinctively. Meera put it down to the wolf blood Arya was so proud of.

Seeing her friend’s puzzled expression, Arya grinned, “Tyrion Lannister is the only person whose stride is shorter than yours, Gendry’s is longer than anyone else’s and you had a maid with you who is now showing them to their rooms so Gendry can change for the feast.”

Meera raised her eyebrows, impressed. “How did you know Gendry was not already dressed?”

“He still wears his spurs and he can’t dance in spurs.”

“Are we having dancing?” 

“Are we not?” Arya asked, “I presumed Gendry brought a troupe of minstrels with him. The Gods know he’s brought everything else.”

It struck Arya as odd that Meera did not what the arrangements were for the feast with only a few hours to go. Surely she had been seeing to the arrangements all afternoon? Then Arya actually looked at her friend, instead of past her. 

“What have you been up to? You’re hair is half undone and . . . “Arya sniffed, “. . . you reek of wine. Expensive wine.”

Meera blushed and yet at the same time looked as if all the blood had drained from her face – if such a thing were possible. 

Wringing her hands, Meera whispered, “I got drunk with Tyrion, or at least I think I did.”

“You think you did?” Arya repeated, “But you don’t seem drunk now, just . . .” she sniffed again, “. . . reeking of it.”

“I was sick,” Meera confessed miserably.

Arya laughed, “Your first time? Don’t worry. We’ve all been there. No harm done. Now I’m rested, we need to get ready for this feast. I have a husband to torture.”

Meera said nothing and Arya was too preoccupied with planning her next battle with Gendry to notice. Everything Bran had predicted was coming true; the stag with the broken antlers had arrived before the army. It had only happened this morning, yet already Winterfell was humming with life once more. Meera had no doubt a babe would eventually come too, despite Arya’s protests. The new Lord Stark did not look like the kind of man who would take ‘no’ for an answer forever and anyway, why was Arya so intent on resisting? He was everything she needed; he was even handsome in a forbidding sort of way. All would be well there, Meera had no doubt. 

Which only left Bran’s predictions for her. Meera felt sick when she thought about it and it wasn’t because of the wine. Bran had told her she would give her love to another and she had sworn she never would. Until today she had believed it, until she had fallen with Tyrion Lannister between her legs and she had wanted him. Tyrion wasn’t, couldn’t be, the one, but for that brief moment Meera had forgotten Bran and her promise. Guilt pricked at her conscience like a thousand tiny knives. If she could think like that once, she would do it again. Bran had been right about everything.

“Why aren’t you excited Meera?” Arya demanded. “This is my wedding feast and I intend to have fun. Do you have a dress that is a bit more . . . revealing? My new husband likes my breasts and I want to show him some more of what he will never have,” Arya said breathlessly as she tried to wriggle the bodice of her dress down further to reveal another few inches of flesh.

Meera shook her head. Arya thought she was such a great judge of character and unsurpassed when it came to manipulating people to get what she wanted, particularly men. But the new Lord Stark clearly wasn’t like most men and Meera suspected that, before she got her happy ending, Arya was going to get a whole lot more than she bargained for.

-o-

 

As they walked towards the Great Hall, the smell of delicious cooked meat and fresh bread wafted towards them, making both of their stomachs grumble with impatient hunger. Unconsciously they both walked faster towards the sounds of laughter and conversation. The corridors and halls had been silent for so long that Arya found the noise unsettling. How long had it been since Winterfell had hosted such a gathering? Even as she asked herself the question, she already knew the answer – it had been to celebrate King Robert’s visit. Now wasn’t that ironic? 

Meera pushed the big oak door open a crack. Arya craned her neck to see inside. Rows of tables filled the floor, crammed with laughing men and women, all bathed in the warm, golden glow of firelight. It looked like another world, far removed from the quiet, hungry, hard one that she lived in. 

Meera nodded to someone inside and almost immediately a tremendous drum roll tore through the air. All conversation instantly stopped and every head swivelled towards the door. Towards them. Towards her. After a life spent in a shadow world, hiding behind different faces and names, Arya had to walk out into that crowd, into the light, as herself. 

Butterflies appeared in her stomach from nowhere. “I don’t want to do this.”

“You’ve got to.” Meera pushed the door fully open with one hand and shoved Arya’s back with the other. “You are Arya Stark of Winterfell. Show them.”

Thousands rose to their feet to greet her and a deafening cheer shook the Hall to its rafters. 

Remembering Izambaro, Arya told herself - all the world’s a stage. With clapping and roars of approval echoing in her ears, she imagined she was a queen, but not Cersi. No, she was Queen Nymeria and these were the cheering Rhoynar. The butterflies in her stomach became dragons.

Fixing a queenly smile on her face, Arya walked into the Hall with her shoulders back and her head held high, only to find herself staring straight at Gendry.

He was standing at the far end of the Hall, on a raised dais, clean shaven with black hair combed straight and falling to the snow white cloak draped around his shoulders. Waiting for her. If she was Queen Nymeria, he was Lord Moras Martell. Damn. Perhaps this play acting wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Arya had every intention of defiantly holding his gaze, but the pride and genuine affection shining in Gendry’s eyes was far worse than the smug, self-satisfied smirk she had been expecting. Arya found herself wanting to look anywhere but at him. She nodded to the left and to right, acknowledging the applause as she completed her slow, regal, lonely, procession towards the top table. Towards him. 

Meera must have run down the side of the Hall as, out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw her appear to Gendry’s left. Only then did she notice the imp was also on the dais; insignificant compared to Gendry. 

As Arya approached the steps, the cheering died away and the thunderous drum roll slowed to a slow, steady, ominous beat. Arya felt as if she was climbing the stairs to her execution, rather than to her wedding feast; with Gendry as the grinning executioner.

He held out his hand to her, which seemed to be the cue for the drums to stop suddenly with a final, perfectly timed, crack. You could have heard a pin drop.

“My Lady.” 

Those two words from Gendry were all it took for the Hall to erupt again in a cacophony of cheers and applause. Above it all, one loud, male voice yelled, “House Stark!”

The call was immediately taken up everywhere. Chants of “Stark, Stark, Stark,” filled the hall and all hands clapped in time.

Catching her eye, Gendry nodded to his outstretched hand and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Well? Was she going to take his hand or not? 

What would Queen Nymeria have done? With a tight grimace, Arya accepted her Lord’s hand and the Hall erupted once again. 

Not wanting to stand there and allow him the satisfaction of the crowd’s adulation a minute longer than she had to, Arya threw herself down into her chair, jerking Gendry so suddenly that he either had to sit down with her or let go of her hand. He sat down. The audience took that as their cue to sit down too and abruptly the Hall fell silent as everyone fell on the food arrayed on their tables.

“You look beautiful,” Gendry said, still holding her hand tightly, “Like a proper Lady.” He leaned towards her and inhaled, “And you smell a lot nicer than you used to.”

Something about what he said and the way he was looking at her stirred memories buried deep inside her that she would rather have forgotten, something that made her chest feel tight and her teats stiffen alarmingly against the already, barely decent, bodice of her dress. 

If he hadn’t been playing games with her, she would have said the same about him. With his thick beard gone, she could see the hard planes of his cheek and jaw and his tempting mouth, the sides turned up in a teasing grin. He smelled of soap but there was still enough of his own, underlying masculine scent to send her nostrils flaring with awareness. Oh, she could have easily have told him that he was beautiful and that he smelled a lot nicer than he used to too, but of course she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Don’t waste your time. Flattery won’t work.” She smiled sweetly as she extricated her hand from his.

He looked annoyed that she didn’t believe his pathetic attempt to wheedle his way into her bed. Good. 

A serving girl appeared from behind them and placed one huge trencher, heaving with food, in front of Gendry and one cup of wine between them.

“Where’s mine?” Arya asked rather more abruptly than she meant to, hunger and frustration making her forget her manners.

“It’s tradition to share one platter and one cup on your wedding night,” Meera hissed, leaning out from behind Gendry.

“To symbolise your commitment to share all things together,” Tyrion added, popping his head out from behind Meera.

“Including a bed,” Gendry added with a smirk.

Arya growled through her teeth and made a grab for the trencher, but it was closer to Gendry and he was faster than she anticipated. He had it pushed away, well out of her reach before she could get a hand on it.

“Manners,” he chided. Then, with a damnable, triumphant twinkle in his eye he added, “Don’t worry, I won’t let you starve Milady.” 

Arya ordered the bewildered serving girl to “Bring me another!”

“Don’t bother. There’s plenty here to share,” Gendry drawled, tearing off a bit of bread, dipping in the thick, dark gravy at the side of the platter and offering it to Arya.

The poor girl looked from Arya to Gendry and back, having no idea whose order to follow. 

“You can go now Branda,” Meera interrupted gently as Arya fumed, “All will be well here.”

Branda gave a deep, relieved curtsy and was already scurrying away as Gendry called for some watered ale. Without looking up, no doubt for fear of catching either his eye or Arya’s and sparking another argument, poor Branda nodded and disappeared as quickly as she could. 

“You can have the wine,” Gendry said graciously, sliding the cup towards Arya. If she thought she could have got away with it, without having his men up in arms, Arya would have dumped the bloody wine over his stupid, selfish, head.

“Do you want to share or not?” Gendry asked, lazily extending the dripping bread. It smelled delicious and Arya’s stomach answered for her with a hearty growl. Gendry chuckled. She frowned. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. It would take too long and she wanted that bread now. But she could still play him at his own game and she intended to win.

“Do I have a choice?” Arya said with a resigned sigh. All the world’s a stage. “I suppose I have to let you feed me too?” she asked, pouting a little, trying to stifle a smirk of her own when she saw surprise and then lust flare in his eyes. He really was too predictable.

She inclined her head slightly towards his and opened her mouth a little, just enough to wet her lips with her tongue, waiting . . .

His eyes focused intently on her mouth as he raised the bread to her lips. Saliva flooded her mouth at the enticing smell of Hot Pie’s bread. Leaning further forward, wanting to take the bread from Gendry, was hardly acting.

His fingers brushed against her lips as she opened for him, taking the bread and his fingers into her mouth. His breath shuddered as she sucked. The bread dissolved in her mouth instantly, but his fingers tasted surprisingly delicious; salty and meaty. An unnerving sensation shot from her tongue to her teats. For a moment she was tempted to wrap her tongue around his two fingers and suck him in further, just to see what happened. But good sense prevailed and she bit down. Hard. Not as hard as she could have; she didn’t want to swallow a finger by accident, but hard enough to hurt. 

He grunted and grimaced and jerked his hand away. 

Trying to stop herself from exploding with laughter, she gasped, “Oops, was that your finger My Lord? I am so clumsy and so sorry.” She fluttered her eyes and tried to look contrite.

“She wolf.” He hissed, as if it was a curse. Arya took it as a compliment

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean to leave me with my fingers you mean,” he said angrily, shaking out his wrist.

“Can I feed myself then?” she asked brightly as her stomach loudly demanded more of Hot Pie’s exquisite bread.

He let out an irritated growl. “Not until the seven hells freeze over,” he said, throwing her own standard response back at her. 

He was angry. She had succeeded in riling him yet again and she wanted to chortle with glee. Surely it couldn’t be long now before he gave in and admitted she would never beg him and accepted that he would never have her? Then he’d leave her alone and they could both continue ignoring each other for the rest of their lives.

Gendry wanted to wipe that cool, scornful look off her face. He wanted her hot and bothered. He wanted her to beg him and he wanted to make her scream with pleasure.

On a wicked impulse, he licked his throbbing fingers, making it clear he was tasting her. “Delicious,” he murmured and he meant it. He wanted to taste all of her. Tonight. Even the threat of violence didn’t put him off. The longer he was in her company, the more he wanted her, if that was even possible. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“So you keep telling me. Keep telling yourself that too and you might start believing it.” 

He pulled off another, smaller piece of bread and held it out to her, by the tips of his fingers this time.

She looked at the bread with contempt. “Too small.” 

“There’s much more where that came from Milady, but I don’t think you’re ready for anything bigger,” he said with an infuriatingly calm voice, dangling the dry bread in front of her. “We need to practice.”

Determined not to give in, she took a gulp of the wine from their shared cup instead. At least he didn’t seem to want to make a battle out of the wine. It was smooth and soft and warmed her quite deliciously on the way down. She took another gulp.

“Has no one ever told you that drinking on an empty stomach is a very bad idea?”

“I can handle my drink.”

His only answer was a faint, mocking smile. Irritating man. Just to prove him wrong, she took another gulp.

“I thought you were hungry?” he said, waiving the bread around, letting the aroma waft into her nostrils.

Actually, now she had some wine in her belly, she wasn’t as hungry as she had been. She signalled to the nearest cupbearer for a refill. She hoped that would provoke a reaction from Gendry. Unfortunately it didn’t. He still held the bread out to her. She looked at it, looked at him and held out her own hand.

He shook his head. “Don’t be so stubborn. It’s tradition,” he coaxed, giving her another annoying smile.

“Stubborn?! Me?!” Arya huffed, “You’re the stubborn one.” 

“But I’m not the hungry one.”

She glowered at him, and then her expression softened. She didn’t want him to know how much he annoyed her. That was a mistake Gendry thought. The more she withstood, the more determined he was to ruffle the She wolf’s fur.

“What are you two playing at?” Meera said interrupted their battle. They both turned to glower at her. Tyrion seemed to find that highly amusing. Meera silenced his sniggering with an elbow in his ribs.

“Have either of you eaten anything?” Meera scolded. “This food is delicious and you both need to keep your strength up.”

“For the bedding!” Tyrion said with a wink, earning himself another jab in the ribs from Meera and a death stare from Arya. Unsurprisingly, Gendry was the only one who seemed to find the quip amusing.

“Because it’s been a long day and we’ll have an even longer one tomorrow,” Meera said, glaring at Tyrion, who cast his eyes down and murmured, “Sorry,” only to wink at Gendry as soon as Meera turned away from him.

“Now stop this childish carrying on. Both of you!” Meera demanded, pushing the trencher away from Gendry, towards Arya. “She hasn’t had a decent meal in moons.”

Gendry couldn’t remember when he had last been spoken to with such little respect, but now Meera had been pointed it out to him, he did feel rather guilty. Arya was far too thin and he’d already enjoyed fantasising what she might look like if she got a bit more meat on her bones. Her hips and her breasts would swell. He’d like to see her that way; curvy and full and, best of all pregnant with his babe. She might not be as cold and as unreceptive to his charms if she wasn’t hungry. He pushed the trencher all the way over to her.

“And you can stop looking so smug Arya, for you’re no better,” Meera said, jabbing a finger towards Arya. “While you were sleeping the day away, he was seeing to our safety and supplies and this feast for you.” Meera waved her arm around at the food and the fires and the celebrating people to illustrate her point, “Have you not thought he might be tired and deserving of some thanks for everything he has done for us.”

“Hear, hear,” Tyrion cheered, only to find everyone glowering at him.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” Meera said, glaring fiercely at Gendry and then Arya. “Now stop this nonsense. Both of you. And eat your dinner.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence. Gendry had to call upon all of his iron will to maintain his calm demeanour. “Lady Reed,” he drawled, torn between clapping her in irons for daring to order him to do anything, much less eat his dinner and exploding with laughter. Lady Reed certainly had balls. “If I ever find that I am taking myself too seriously, I am sure I can rely on you to remind me that underneath this white cloak and title, I’m still just a bastard boy from Flea Bottom who needs to eat his dinner.”

Meera’s mouth dropped open and it was Tyrion who exploded with laughter. 

Arya hung her head, unable to look at Meera’s astonished expression for fear she might also burst out laughing. Her shoulders were shaking as she tried to stifle her mirth. When Gendry looked at her, they caught each other’s eye and both were lost in their shared laughter.

“I . . . I had no idea,” Meera started, then she turned on Tyrion, “You never mentioned he was from . . . there.”

“You never asked my dear,” Tyrion said with a shrug and a chuckle.

“And why is Arya laughing? Is she not shocked?”

Tyrion shrugged again, “Apparently they met before, as children. She knows.”

“They know each other?” Meera gasped. Certain things began to fall into place. “That’s why he kept his helmet on wasn’t it?”

“For the record - I advised him not to.”

“So that’s why there’s all this stupid arguing?”

Tyrion nodded towards the newlyweds. They certainly weren’t arguing now. Arya was wiping her nose on the back of hand as tears of laughter ran down her cheeks.

“So everyone knew except me?”

“Only if Arya and I count as ‘everyone’,” Tyrion said as Meera fumed. He patted her arm in a reassuring way. “Just let them be. You achieved what your goal, look how well they’re getting on now.” 

“I suppose,” Meera said watching Arya and Gendry grab a piece of meat each from the trencher. They seemed to be having a competition to see who could eat the biggest piece of meat the fastest.

“Just look how well suited they are,” Tyrion observed dryly. It was so true, in so many ways, that Meera had to laugh. All would be well with Arya and Gendry. Now she only had to worry about herself.

 

Gendry and Arya had agreed an unspoken, unofficial truce while they ate. He was hungry and she seemed to be ravenous. Still, they had time to talk in between mouthfuls of Hot Pie’s delicious food. Gendry started with the Brotherhood and told her a shortened, and extremely modest, version of what had happened to him in the intervening years. She told him about Sandor Clegane (Gendry wanted to send men to search for Clegane’s grave there and then; in the hope that they wouldn’t find one and Gendry would have the chance to kill him again. Arya persuaded him to at least wait until morning) and her journey to Braavos, about the canals and the different cultures and people and a few unconvincing stories, such as how she had briefly joined a Mummer’s troupe. But it was glaringly obvious to Gendry that she made no mention of the House of Black and White or the Guild at all. Still, he did not press her as they had made great progress. She still flinched and drew away from him when he tried to touch her – even for some purpose as innocent as wiping a crumb off her sleeve, but it was still progress.

A huge crash followed by shrieks from the women and whoops of delight from the men was the first thing that distracted Gendry from Arya all evening. It proved to be nothing more than an overbalanced bench, however, one glance around the hall confirmed that his men and Winterfell’s women were becoming intimately acquainted.

Gendry had been so focused on Arya that he had missed the change in the atmosphere of the Hall. Relief on both sides; for a bloodless victory and delivery from starvation seemed to have given the wedding guests an almost frantic need to enjoy themselves. Free-flowing wine from the Arbor, another gift from Highgarden, had loosened tongues and inhibitions and, in several cases, bodices too. Gendry didn’t grudge his men their celebration; they deserved it after the hard won victory at the Twins and the long, cold march here and, if anything, the beleaguered occupants of Winterfell deserved their feast even more. 

The celebrations were clearly only going to end with the dawn, a lot of sore heads and more than a few babes in nine moons time. Seeing couples already kissing and groping tightened his loins and sent his thoughts racing back to the woman sitting beside him; his wife, he kept having to remind himself. 

During the evening, the food and not a little wine seemed to have softened Arya’s attitude to him and he was, once again, hopeful their wedding night would end as it should. Watching her laugh at the drunken men trying to right the overturned bench and help equally inebriated women to their feet, sent his blood pumping. He wanted to make her laugh tonight, in the privacy of their bed chamber; truth be told, he wanted to make her scream, but with passion rather than fury. But there was the problem of that damn bet. Exactly how was he going to make her beg? Such practical thoughts were rudely interrupted by one drunken voice loudly shouting “Time for the bedding!” The cry was immediately taken up by almost everyone else in the hall and, within moments, his ears were ringing with the chant of “Bedding, bedding, bedding!”

Arya’s eyes flew wide open and she looked first to Meera and then to him, with something akin to panic. Throughout all the trials of the day, Arya had been calm and controlled; even her anger towards him had been calculated and cold, although he had thought even that had begun to thaw as they shared their meal. For the first time tonight, he saw a chink appear in her armour, revealing a glimpse of the frightened girl behind the cool assassin’s façade. She had almost let him see it on the battlements, but she had recovered herself, no doubt in part to his harsh teasing. He had no intention of making her hate him now.

As the chanting grew louder, her chest rose and fell rapidly, threatening to spill out of her dress, as her eyes implored him to do something. His own chest constricted with longing and the need to protect her, to make her his, to ensure no harm of any kind befell her ever again. Arya was obviously horrified by the thought of her dress being torn off by a bunch of lecherous, marauding men and Gendry realised he would happily kill any man who tried. It seemed he was even more possessive than he thought. 

Taking her hand in his, at which contact she flinched but did not pull away, he stood up, forcing her to rise to her feet and stand beside him. The hall immediately fell silent. His men might be drunk, but they were still bound by their respect for him as their leader. 

Flashing a grin to Arya, that he hoped was reassuring, he raised their joined hands aloft and addressed the crowd,

“My wife and I . . .”

He paused for dramatic effect while his audience erupted with whoops, hand claps and stamping feet. Arya’s hand gripped his tightly, as a drowning man might cling to a raft. Realising she needed him sent another thrill of possession pumping through his veins. When the cacophony of noise showed no sign of abating, he raised his free hand for silence. It fell instantly.

“. . . are headed for bed,”

Another round of cheers followed his mention of the word ‘bed’. Again he had to raise his hand for silence.

“. . . but she’s all mine and if any of you drunken bastards think you’re going to get your hands on my wife . . .”

Gendry paused again; this time not only for dramatic effect but also to give his inebriated men time to think on what he was telling them. Gendry knew better than anyone that drink made men unpredictable, seven hells, it made his own judgement dubious. But by calling them ‘bastards’ he was aligning himself with them, reminding them of the deep bond they shared, a strategy that had worked well for him in the past. There was a pause as his men realised there was to be bedding ritual, then, to Gendry’s relief, another drunken cheer went up at his mentioning ‘my wife’ again.

Beside him, Arya let out a long, shaky sigh of relief and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. At last. Pride and satisfaction and lust swelled his head and another, eager part of him lower down too. So this is what it felt like to be King of the world. 

To soften the blow of his denying them their bedding ritual, Gendry ended with a jape,

“If any of you drunken bastards think you’re going to get your hands on my wife, I hear Golden Company is always looking for men who want to die young!”

His men erupted with laughter. Mercifully there had been no drunken insubordination tonight and he’d managed to make his will known without having to issue a direct order - which would have thoroughly dampened the atmosphere of celebration.

The danger having passed, Arya immediately released his hand, the hand she had been gripping so tightly only moments before. He felt its loss immediately and deeply. As he looked down at her, she looked away. As swiftly as that, the intimacy they’d shared was gone. 

Cursing himself for doing something wrong, although not knowing what, Gendry lifted their shared wine cup, the one he had not touched all night, in salute to the occupants of the hall. They responded in kind, raising their cups to him.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, as we shall enjoy ours!” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arya’s back stiffen as he drained the wine cup in one long gulp. He hadn’t had intended to drink wine at all, but the anticipation that had been building in him all evening had just been replaced by crashing disappointment, making him angry and rash. Slamming his cup down with one hand, he drew the back of his other hand across his mouth. She was his wife and no one would deny his right to bed her. He had just saved her from the humiliation of a public bedding and she still wasn’t happy. What the fuck more did she want from him? 

Wine rushed through his veins; the Arbour’s finest warming away any self-doubt.

She was his wife. 

Ecstatic cheers echoed around the hall as he scooped her up in one smooth movement; one hand behind her knees, the other under her shoulders. Other than a whispered curse meant only for his ears, she gave no resistance, but he felt the tension and the fight in her, when all he wanted was his wife to melt against him and rest her head against his shoulder. He strode down the steps at the side of the dais and through the crowded hall with his wife in his arms. His wife he reminded himself. Soon he would share her bed and the slick, softness of her body. Every part of him thrummed with anticipation. 

Soldiers and Winterfell women made way, all clapping and cheering as he carried his bride out of the Hall. As the great doors oak closed behind him, he realised he had no idea where he was going.

“Which way?” he asked gruffly.

“Put me down.”

“You don’t weigh enough for me to have to,” he muttered, feeling the sting of Arya’s and Winterfell’s suffering. But he was here now. Neither she nor Winterfell would starve again. 

Looking left and right, he wondered which direction was most likely to lead to their bedchamber. 

She started wriggling in his arms, but he had no intention of letting her go. She was his wife. He tightened his hold and crushed her to his chest, feeling her heart hammering against his. She wasn’t going anywhere, except their bed, in his arms and going now.

“I’ve played my part in your mummer’s farce. Now put me down,” she hissed. There was no mistaking the threat of violence in her voice. The willing bride who clutched at his hand had turned into a spitting, squirming hellcat.

“Left, then up the stairs. Third landing.” Meera said from behind them. Gendry turned around to see that Lady Reed had followed them out of the hall.

“Traitor!” Arya snarled at her supposed friend.

“I am not!” Meera shot back, “You wed him. What did you expect?”

As Gendry started walking, Arya strained against him, trying to see around the bulk of his shoulder and yell at her friend, “I’ve kept my side of the bargain and Lord Stark got what he wanted. I never said I’d bed him!”

His thoughts in furious, bewildered, disarray, Gendry started up the stairs two at a time. He had to get her alone, get them back to where they’d been mere moments ago.

“You can’t wed him and not expect to have to bed him!” Meera shouted up the winding tower staircase after them.

“Enough!” Gendry snapped, his anger flaring at both Meera and his wife. “This is not up for discussion any longer.”

All day and all night Gendry had felt the attraction between them build, growing like a pyre of wood until all it needed was the spark to ignite it. He had expected their passion to burn like wildfire, yet Arya was acting as if his taking his wife to their bed was a Goddamn duty or a chore she had to endure. 

Surely he hadn’t mistaken the sparks that had passed between them as they ate? Arya had felt the dark pull of their sexual attraction too; he had no doubt about it, so why was she fighting it now?

Arya asked again, but more calmly this time, “Will you put me down . . .”

“No.”

“I was going to say please,” she said sharply. 

“I’ll put you down when we get to our bed chamber.”

“I can walk.”

“You can also run away.”

“A Stark doesn’t run away!”

“A Stark also keeps her promise.”

For a moment he thought she was going to rant or rage against him or even use one of her concealed blades against him, but after a brief stiffening in his arms, he felt her relax, more so than she had all night.

“You really want me to be a proper wife?” she asked with a slight frown.

Seven buggering hells, she really thought she had to ask him that? 

“I do.” 

She looked at him with no expression in her slate grey eyes. What the fuck was she thinking? He wished he knew as her even mentioning the possibility of being his wife in every sense of the word had raised his . . . expectations again. The fact that his ‘expectations’ seemed to be in his britches was unfortunately extremely obvious. 

“Alright,” she said seriously, “Put me down and I’ll keep my promise.”

Surely she wasn’t going to give in that easily? Gendry had no doubt she was planning something. Still, he was anxious to know what it was. So he set her down carefully, on a step higher than the one he stood on. Perfect. They were close enough that a slight incline of his head would bring their lips together. If she did actually intend to keep her word. 

Arya had a plan, but she didn’t like him looming over her. It made her feel small and for some reason helpless and she didn’t like that feeling. She didn’t like it all. She immediately stepped backwards and up another step so he had to look up at her and there was a welcome, empty expanse of air between them. She gave him a teasing smile. That was much better.

Gendry growled. That wouldn’t do. He stepped up and closed the distance between them, only to have Arya back away again.

“This is keeping your promise?” he mocked as she took another step, “Do you intend to make me chase you all the way to our bed chamber, one stair at a time?”

To his surprise, she cupped his face with one hand and slid the other up his neck. All the anger drained out of him as long, slim fingers caressed his face. He felt her heat and her strength and he was helpless to resist. Her eyes never left his and her mouth was so close; within tasting distance and she had a beautiful mouth. The wine sang through his veins; yes, yes, yes.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, inclining her own head to his.

He was so predictable and this was too easy. Arya knew the simplest way to get a man, or a woman, to stand still long enough to find the deadly pressure point behind their ear was to kiss them. She had done it dozens of times before – but never like this. This didn’t seem entirely right; it should be impersonal and cold, a means to an end. She certainly shouldn’t be thinking about Gendry’s tempting mouth, or imagining his hand on her breast, or his pulling up her skirts and his taking her here, in the shadows of the stairwell, up against the wall. 

Gendry felt her moist, warm breath feather his lips. Now, now, now. “I’ve waited so long for this,” he murmured before he closed his lips over hers in a gentle, yet possessive, kiss. 

Arya leant against the warm stone and let him kiss her. She’d been kissed any number of times in Braavos where she’d lured men and women with kisses and the prospect of sex. She’d used it to get what she needed or as a prelude to giving the Gift. But this wasn’t like any other kiss she’d ever experienced. 

Gendry’s kiss wasn’t rough or demanding and he didn’t immediately try to snake his tongue into her mouth. His lips were soft, tentative, worshipful. One of his huge hands stroked through her hair while the other gently wrapped around her waist, sending shivers of alarm down her spine. She hated being touched and loathed kissing; it was merely a way to get what she wanted. Wasn’t it? She shouldn’t be enjoying this. But she was. Gendry stirred a strange restlessness in her that she didn’t understand, or at least, didn’t want to admit. 

His lips brushed against hers softly, back and forth, sending unfamiliar sensations washing over her, relaxing her muscles and weakening her resolve. This was a lover’s kiss that tasted of desire and sex and promise. A kiss that was strong yet gentle, demanding yet giving, a kiss that suggested she could just stop struggling and fighting, a kiss that tempted her with wonderful, passionate life instead of death and duty. 

Her iron grip on her self control was loosening and she didn’t care. This was the reason why men lost their heads and often their lives to her. This was the reason maidens were ruined before their wedding. And she wanted more.

His hand on her waist slid down to her hip, pulling her gently towards him and suddenly she was finding it hard to breath. His body was as solid as the wall behind her. While the wall was warm, he was positively hot, all muscled flesh and blood. His thighs were thick and firm against hers as he slid his hand down, cupping her bottom and pulling her hips insistently towards his. She instinctively arched against him, her breasts crushed against his chest as the unmistakeable hardness of his erection pressed into her stomach. His other hand found and caressed the nape of her neck with a gentleness completely at odds with the hardness of the rest of him. She shouldn’t have let him; she should be making him stop. The unpalatable truth was - she didn’t want him to.

The look he gave her as he slowly raised his mouth from hers was so deep and seemed to be so genuine that she felt the unexpected sting of guilt; an emotion she hadn’t felt in so long that she had almost forgotten.

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to meet his hooded, heated gaze. She needed to remember he was using her. He needed her to get what he really wanted; a name, a title, Winterfell. She knew it and yet . . . and yet this was they way she had thought a man would kiss her if he really cared about her, if he loved her; the way she’d wanted Jaqen to kiss her. 

Gendry’s arms tightened around her and a twist of panic coiled in her stomach. She hadn’t let anyone this close since Jaqen. She had been a fool to let herself be seduced by Jaqen H’ghar and she wasn’t going to let herself be used like that again.

Memories of that betrayal galvanised her into action. 

Stroking her hand around Gendry’s neck, she caressed his warm skin as she stealthily felt for his pulse and the little sweet spot below his ear, where just enough pressure would drop him like a stone. Her hand against Gendry’s neck registered his strong, calm pulse, while own heart was suddenly racing. The sweet spot was hard to find and the pressure difficult to judge – too much and he’d be dead before he hit the floor.

She didn’t want to be touching him, she didn’t want to have to stroke her hand over warm skin and through silky hair in a lover’s caress, she didn’t want him looking at her like that; like she meant everything to him and she didn’t want his lips moving against hers. She didn’t want his lips teasing the seal of her lips and she definitely didn’t want to open for him. 

She heard a small groan of frustration and desire a moment before he took advantage of her parted lips and slid his tongue into her mouth. Arya’s eyes flew open. Surely that needy moan hadn’t come from her? But she knew it had. For a moment she’d nearly lost herself, she nearly let herself be seduced by his gifts and his thoughtfulness and his dangerous kisses. His tongue danced with hers and shocking, thrilling, terrifying sensations raced through her body like wildfire.

She needed to get away. He made her vulnerable and she despised weakness. Leaving him now would be perfect. He thought he had her, thought she was on the brink of total surrender. She needed to show him she was stronger than that. Leaving him unconscious on the stairs for the night should ensure he’d never want to come near her again, much less kiss her. And that suited her perfectly. She didn’t want any more temptation. She was the lone wolf and always would be. 

With Gendry’s wicked tongue sliding along hers, Arya increased the pressure just below his ear and he dropped like a stone. They always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So not quite bedded yet. The next chapter is gonna be a hottie, so I want to take my time and get it right. It will be worth the wait. I promise!


	9. After the feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I need to apologise for the time this has taken and express my gratitude for all the good wishes I’ve been sent. Things have thankfully improved family wise, so I’ve allowed myself to relax and do some fun stuff for a change. However, that has meant less time for moping and writing.
> 
> Finally, and most importantly, I’m long overdue to thank the thousand or so people who read every chapter of this on FF and AO3. Heartfelt thanks to you all for hanging on in there and for giving me that most precious of gifts – your time. 
> 
> -o-

His shoulder, where Arya had prodded him earlier, was pounding. Pain seared through it like a blinding white light, flashing and receding with every beat of his heart. Before he did anything else, before he could think straight, Gendry needed to move and ease the pain. 

He tried to lift his arm, only he couldn’t. It felt lifeless, like a lump of iron unconnected to the rest of his body in any way. Gritting his teeth Gendry concentrated on his fingers, clenching and unclenching them, willing the blood back into his dead arm with every painful squeeze of his fist. Only when the pins and needles sensation shooting through his arm reassured him that it was, thankfully, still attached to his body, did Gendry allow himself to look around. He was hemmed in by narrow stone walls with worn steps twisting away above and below. Light from the full moon hanging in a cloudless sky shone through arrow slits in the walls, casting shadows on some stairs while bathing others in cool silver light. Why was he remembering that a full moon in spring was sometimes called a lover’s moon? And then he remembered.

He was finally wed. He’d kissed Arya and she had kissed him back. There was no doubt in his mind that her desire had matched his own. Arya’s tongue had been in his mouth as she arched her hips against his, her breasts crushed to his chest, her fingers stroking his neck, just below his ear, caressing . . . pressing. And that was the last thing he remembered.

She’d already give him a taste of her Assassin’s skills with that damn jab to his shoulder which still hurt like hell and she’d done something similar to him again; something that made him black out. And here he was, Gods only knew how much later, lying on his dead arm, alone on a stone staircase.

Gendry hauled himself up to standing, his legs not feeling much steadier than his throbbing arm. Battle hardened as he was, she had managed to best him and take him by surprise. She should be a bloody mummer; she’d fooled him easily enough and if she’d wanted to kill him, she could have done it easily. He’d never felt so vulnerable, or so fucking stupid, in years. It was a harsh lesson, one he needed to learn well, but damn her to the seven hells, when she’d kissed him he’d believed she’d really meant it. He would not underestimate the Faceless Assassin lurking behind that beautiful face again.

She’d played him like a fool. All it had taken was a taste of her and he’d lost his wits like some green, untried boy. The humiliation was bad enough, but what really stung was that, in those moments when she’d moulded her body to his and been soft and willing in his arms, he’d thought she’d finally accepted the inevitable attraction between them and admitted to herself that they were meant to be together. He’d thought she was finally, finally his. Instead she’d tricked him and left him for dead. 

The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the humiliation, crushing disappointment and the ache in his chest. He felt like someone had stabbed him in the heart; someone with slate grey eyes and a body he was prepared to die for.

Leaning back against the warm, Winterfell wall, Gendry looked down the winding staircase. The glow of flickering torches lit the stair and he could hear the distant noises of celebration drifting up form the Great Hall below. He cursed softly. Everyone else was enjoying his wedding night more than him. If he was a gambling man, he would wager that Arya was enjoying tonight most of all – laughing at him and the ease with which she’d drawn him in and he’d lost his wits. 

Turning his back to the light and noise, Gendry gazed upwards, where only occasional shafts of moonlight pierced the darkness. Arya was up there somewhere, perhaps even in their bed, congratulating herself on her night’s work.

He could go back to the Hall and drown himself in drink. No doubt he could find a willing woman if he wanted. That’s what his father would have done, had done – lost himself in drinking and whoring. Other men would climb those stairs and break the door of their bedchamber down. There was not a man in the whole of Westeros who would deny a husband the right to lie with his wife on their wedding night. But violence had always been Gendry’s last resort. Any brute could kick down a door and force himself on a woman, even one with Assassin’s tricks, but Gendry was more than that. He knew he was a better man than his father and he was determined to be a better husband too. 

It seemed that tonight his path lay in a different direction than Arya’s. He might be the king of determination, but he wasn’t fool enough to keep fighting a losing battle. It seemed that tonight, the king had lost his crown.

Gendry trudged slowly back down the winding stair, putting Arya and temptation behind him. At least for tonight. Drink no longer held any appeal and, after some drunken mistakes in his youth, neither did other women. Arya Stark was the only one for him. Always had been. Always would be. 

He had no wish to return to the hollow celebration and instead, he decided to check that the arrangements he made earlier to guard Winterfell were sufficient. However, the closer he got to the foot of the stairs, the louder the bawdy singing and inebriated shrieking became. By the sounds of it, he had been lying unconscious on the stair long enough for the occupants of Winterfell to drink themselves well into their cups. 

Rounding another corner, Gendry heard the muffled, but unmistakeable sounds of fucking; a man’s rhythmic grunts of effort and a woman’s answering enthusiastic moans. Gendry hesitated, one foot in mid-air. This was the only way down and to go back up meant not only a long detour, but having to walk past his own bed chamber and that was a torture he was keen to avoid. There was nothing else for it, but to continue down.

They were standing in a shadow on the stairs; the woman’s head flung back in wild abandon, her skirts bunched up and her legs wrapped around her lover’s waist. The man’s knees flexed as he grunted with the effort of driving upwards while holding his woman against the wall, his dirty hands gripping smooth, pale thighs, his teeth bared in a primal display of claiming. Gendry felt a shocking stab of jealously. A few hours ago this could have been him, here on the stair, with Arya. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of that thought; of Arya’s strong thighs gripping his hips, her eyes closed, lips parted with wanting as she took him inside of her. Fuck. He needed to walk away, not run back up those stairs to a wife who didn’t want him.

The woman turned her head, startled by Gendry appearing on the stair. Her eyes flew open and she buried her head against her lover’s shoulder, whispering hurriedly. The thrusting stopped abruptly as the man turned towards his Commander in a panic, trying to extricate his hands from beneath the woman’s skirts, but she had her thighs wrapped around him in a vice-like grip and she wasn’t about to be denied.

“Ser!”

Gendry couldn’t recall seeing the man before and hoped never to have to see him again after such an awkward encounter. Waiving his hand in acknowledgement and dismissal, Gendry brushed past, the reek of sex filling his nostrils and making that hole in his heart ache just a little bit more.

Taking the rest of the stairs two at a time, Gendry left the lovers behind. When he reached the foot of the stairs, he was greeted by a scene that would not have been out of place in a brothel. A shrieking, giggling woman raced by him, her dress pushed down to her waist, breasts bouncing as she ran, followed by one of his men, already grappling with the laces of his britches. Paying more attention to freeing his cock than to where he was going, he tripped over the entwined legs of another couple kissing in an alcove and was sent sprawling. More shrieks and some colourful curses added to the general mayhem. The woman with the bared breasts hurried back to her pursuer, bending over, not to help him up, but rather to push him back down. Gendry had to look away, as she gathered up her skirts and lowered herself onto the man’s surprised, but delighted face.

As he walking along the corridor, Gendry saw similar scenes of drinking, singing, kissing and fucking. Wherever he looked, men and women were enjoying the night and each other. It was his wedding night and yet everyone was enjoying themselves except him. His mood soured as he walked, unnoticed, or at least ignored, down laughter filled corridors. He didn’t resent his men, or Winterfell’s women, enjoying themselves, Gods knew they all deserved it; but he did resent them doing it on his wedding night. 

A couple of men and a woman slumped against the wall of the Great Hall were drunkenly singing “The Dornish man’s wife,” as they shared a bottle between them. The woman waived the bottle towards him as he passed, offering, “Wannna drink? Wannna join us?” 

Gendry snarled his refusal as he walked on, only to have her shout after him, “No need t’ be rude. I only offered you a drink!”

“Fuck ‘im. We ain’t sharin’ nothin’” one of her companions slurred, oblivious to the fact that he had just refused to share a drink with his Commander. 

Gendry stopped dead, clenching his fists, considering teaching the man a harsh lesson in respect, but the woman got there first, scolding her drunken companion, “Leave ‘im be, can’t you see ‘ees all alone.” 

Hearing the truth from a stranger cut him to the quick. It was his wedding night and he’d never felt more alone. Gendry strode quickly away, flexing his fingers, loosening the tension in his fists. Knowing he was acting like a miserable, lonely, bastard didn’t lessen the pain or make it any easier to bear.

He’d only taken a few more strides when a side door from the hall flew open with a crash, narrowly missing his shoulder. What the fuck was wrong with everyone tonight? Cursing loudly, he rounded on the culprit, ready to let loose his anger this time, only to find himself staring down at Tyrion and Meera. They looked as shocked to see him as he was to see them.

Reaching over their heads, Gendry quickly slammed the door behind them. What he saw in the corridor was bad enough. He had no stomach for a whole hall of it. 

“What, the fuuuuuuk, are you doing here?” Tyrion drawled, swaying drunkenly, even though Meera’s arm was wrapped protectively around his shoulder. Gendry had never seen Tyrion so far into his cups before and that was saying something. 

“And where’s Arya?” Lady Reed demanded, looking around with sharp eyes, obviously as sober as Tyrion was drunk.

“No idea,” Gendry said through gritted teeth.

“You lost your fuuuuuuuking wife on your wedding night?” Tyrion slurred, “Careless bastard,” he added sullenly, his chin dropping to his chest. 

“Let me help you . . .” Gendry offered, reaching out to an unsteady Tyrion.

“I’ve got him.” “She’s got me!” Meera and Tyrion said at the same time. 

Meera tried to manoeuvre her burden one way while Tyrion took a drunken step in the opposite direction. After pulling apart they bounced back together, tottering alarmingly. Gendry rolled his eyes. Meera Reed wasn’t much taller than Tyrion and weighed considerably less. It was inevitable that Tyrion was going to topple them both over before they got very far.

“This way,” Meera tugged determinedly at Tyrion and they set off again.

“Where are you going?” Gendry asked, falling into step beside them. However he only managed one long stride before he had to stop and wait for them to catch up.

“She’s taking me to bed,” Tyrion slurred suggestively, trying to wink at Gendry. Being so drunk, he only managed to screw his face up on one side. 

Stifling a chuckle, Gendry cocked a questioning eyebrow at Meera who instantly turned a very fetching shade of pink.

“I’m putting him to bed,” Meera clarified sharply, while blushing even more.

“Same thing my dear,” Tyrion sighed dreamily, “You. Me. Bed. It’s inexorable.”

Gendry didn’t want to ask what that meant. Tyrion’s big words made him feel like a Flea Bottom idiot. However Gendry’s reluctance to draw attention to his lack of learning was outweighed by his wanting to know what was going on with these two. With a sigh he asked, “What does that mean?”

“It’s inevitable,” Tyrion and Meera said together. 

This time Meera didn’t just turn pink, she turned a violent shade of scarlet while Tyrion gave her a smug, drunken, lecherous grin. Gendry’s eyebrows shot up and the sides of his mouth tugged up in a surprised smile. Tyrion and Lady Meera? It was an odd pairing, but why not? It had only been a few hours and yet they were already speaking as if they’d been wed for years. Gendry knew people who had been wed for years and who weren’t as comfortable in each other’s company as these two. It seemed as if they were both right – it was inevitable. 

Gendry felt rather pleased with himself. Hadn’t he, rather foolishly, promised Tyrion that he’d find him a wife, even if they had to search the whole of Westeros together? And all they’d had to do was come to Winterfell. Gendry would have kept his promise, of course, but he was rather relieved he wouldn’t have to go traipsing all over Westeros again to do it. 

“Well, Brother, I’m glad for you . . . for you both,” Gendry grinned down at them.

“Wait a . . . a minute,” Meera stammered hurriedly, “I never said . . . I never meant . . .”

“Don’t worry my dear,” Tyrion cut in, looking up at her with crossed eyes, “I won’t rush you. I’m a very patient man.”

“But . . .”

“But seeing as you’re taking me to bed anyway, tonight would be good.” 

Gendry laughed, grabbed Tyrion by the shoulders and hoisted him up. “I think I’d better put you to bed tonight brother.”

Seeing the look of relief on Meera’s face Gendry knew he’d made the right decision. It might be inexorable that these two ended up together, but it wasn’t going to be tonight. Not with Tyrion so drunk. Lady Reed deserved better than that. 

Tyrion, however, didn’t seem too happy with Gendry’s interfering in his plans, struggling uselessly as Gendry started walking.

“Turn me around or I’ll puke all over you,” Tyrion warned, grimacing, his eyes rolling in his head. Gendry wasn’t sure if Tyrion was joking or not, but he wasn’t about to take the chance. With a bit of arm crossing and cursing from Gendry, who hadn’t thought about the damage Arya had inflicted on his arm before picking Tyrion up, Gendry managed to turn Tyrion so he was facing the front. Tyrion still wasn’t happy.

“On second thoughts, turn me back around. I want to puke on you . . . you big, interfering . . . lucky bastard. You’ve already got the woman of your dreams and you’re ruining it for me with mine.”

Gendry snorted. If only he had Arya, but he wasn’t about to have that conversation with a drunk. Instead he risked a sideways look at Meera, wondering how she felt about being the woman of Tyrion Lannister’s dreams.

Unfortunately Meera seemed keen to change the subject, “So where is Arya? I presume you were joking when you said you’d lost her?”

“Careless bastard,” Tyrion muttered in front of them.

Gendry blew out a big sigh. “I told you the truth when I said I didn’t know where she was. Tonight is . . . not the night for us.” He gave Meera a hard stare, making it clear that was all he intended to say on the matter. He wasn’t prepared to discuss the details of his humiliation with her. With anyone. 

Meera pursed her lips, but wisely didn’t say anything more.

“I warned you to consummate your marriage straight away,” Tyrion slurred belligerently. “Every night you let this go on, the harder it will be.”

Harder? Gendry immediately thought about his cock, which had been hard from the minute he had set eyes on Arya until she’d dropped him like a stone. However, he didn’t suppose that’s what Tyrion meant. 

“I think you should be patient with her,” Meera said softly, looking up at him, “She’s been through a lot.”

Tyrion snorted drunkenly. “Just get it over with or you’ll regret it. Look at me and learn brother. Anyway, what are you worried about? Hurting her? She’s a Faceless Assassin you idiot. She can take anything you can throw at her and more.”

Gendry watched Meera’s eyes widen with shock – she’d had no idea. Damn Tyrion and his drunken mouth.

Meera’s jaw clenched and she stared fixedly ahead. Gendry knew she was working through this new information. He also knew Meera would come to the same conclusion he had – it answered a lot of questions about Arya’s past and her current behaviour.

It seemed he was right. Meera finally looked up at him, her eyes shining with deep concern and unshed tears. “I had no idea,” she whispered.

“But it fits doesn’t it?” Gendry asked gently, already knowing what Meera’s answer would be.

She nodded.

“You need to be seen to have a firm grip on Winterfell and that means a firm grip on Arya Stark,” Tyrion warned, struggling to turn around again.

Gendry groaned, but held Tyrion firmly away from him. He didn’t want to have to face the imp’s perceptive, mismatched eyes at the moment. Talking about this was hard enough already. “How in seven hells do you expect me to keep any kind of a hold on a Faceless Assassin?” he muttered.

“Any bloody way you can,” Tyrion snapped, suddenly sounding a lot more sober than he had moments before. “Do you not realise how serious this is? Do you think it will go unnoticed that you’ve been wandering around Winterfell alone on your wedding night? Her women will think you’ve spurned their Lady and your men will think she kicked you out of her bed.”

“He’s right,” Meera agreed.

“Word will get back to Daenerys,” Tyrion said darkly, “And then where will you be? Everything depends on this marriage succeeding, or at least looking like it is.”

Gendry stared fixedly at the back of Tyrion’s head. How could a Lannister see things so clearly when he himself could not? He knew he’d be a laughing stock if his men found out his wife had knocked him out with a kiss of all things, but he hadn’t thought beyond that. Without his properly, legally, wedded and bedded wife, he had nothing; no title, no home, no name and worst of all, no Arya. 

Meera’s hand squeezing his arm drew his attention back down to her.

“She needs you,” Meera said, her eyes big and dark and serious. “Winterfell needs you too. We all need you, but she needs you most of all. There’s darkness in her. I didn’t know why, I didn’t understand, until Tyrion said about the . . . about the . . .”

“Faceless Men,” Gendry finished for her. He knew why Meera couldn’t say it; at first he hadn’t wanted to believe it either.

Meera nodded and pulled him closer. Gendry couldn’t hold Tyrion and give all his attention to Meera, so he carefully set Tyrion back on his feet. The imp swayed, but at least he didn’t fall over. Gendry turned back to Meera and bent down on one knee, so his face was level with hers. 

Lady Reed took a deep breath and met his questioning gaze with steadfast resolve. Whatever she was going to say she obviously considered to be very important. 

“Arya’s brother Bran was a greenseer. That gift was strong in him, maybe stronger than anyone since the children of the forest.”

Gendry nodded. He had heard tales of the green sight and of the children of the forest before, but thought that was all they were – tales. However Meera obviously believed it and, despite only knowing her for a few hours, Gendry was already inclined to trust her judgement.

“Before Bran died, he had many visions. I didn’t understand them at the time, but everything . . .” she gripped Gendry’s arm tighter in order to emphasise what she was telling him, “. . . everything has come to pass.”

“What did he say?” Tyrion asked quietly. 

Meera’s eyes flicked to Tyrion. She licked her lips nervously before looking back at Gendry.

“He said an army would come to Winterfell and that a stag with broken antlers would come before them.”

Gendry swallowed hard, barely believing what he was hearing. Meera had to be referring to his Baratheon helmet. But he’d only broken the antlers off in a fit of anger after Edric had been made Lord Baratheon. Gendry hadn’t intended to do it and immediately after he had regretted it - ashamed of losing his self control. How could anyone have predicted that? He shivered and tried not to think that fate was running an icy finger down his spine.

“The Baratheon stag came,” Tyrion murmured, “What else?”

“Bran said that there would be a babe; that Arya would have a babe and it would see Winterfell flourish again.”

Gendry gently removed Meera’s hand from his arm. Taking both of her small hands in his, he asked, “Did Bran say any more?” Gendry wanted to ask if the babe would be his, but he could not bring himself to, for he both dreaded and longed to hear the answer.

“I can’t remember . . .”

Gendry squeezed Meera’s hands gently, “Can you try and remember? For me?” 

Meera hesitated, biting her lip. She had not wanted to hear what Bran had been trying to tell her then; about her future and how she would betray him by loving another. In not wanting to hear that, she had also closed her ears to the other things Bran had said about Arya’s future and Winterfell, believing that Bran had to be wrong. But now, seeing the hope in the new Lord Stark’s eyes, and something else in Tyrion’s, something that could even have been love, Meera knew that the time for denying the truth of Bran’s predictions was over. 

So she took a deep breath and tried to recall every detail of those awful last few days. “Bran was sick, he had a fever and he was hard to understand. I’m not sure . . .”

Gendry’s eyes closed and his head fell forwards, his disappointment heart wrenchingly obvious.

For everything he had done for Winterfell, for everything he would do, Meera owed it to the new Lord to try. Searching her memory, she hesitantly began, “Bran said the stag with broken antlers would save Winterfell. Is there another stag with no name who could have led an army here and become Lord Stark? Another Commander who did not already belong to a Great House?” Meera asked, sliding her hands out from between Gendry’s and wrapping her hands over his in a gesture of reassurance. There was no doubt in Meera’s mind that the man kneeling before her was the one of whom Bran had spoken.

“Bran said Arya’s babe would be a Stark. Your babe will be the great Stark who will see Winterfell flourish again, have no doubt.”

Gendry let out a shaky sigh of relief. Arya’s babe would be his. 

“Boy or girl?” he whispered.

Meera closed her eyes and thought back, “I . . . I don’t know. Bran never said,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion, wishing she could give Lord Stark a better answer.

“It makes no matter. I am to be a father,” Gendry said softly, awed that the Gods would bless him so completely. Then he looked at Meera solemnly and asked, “Does Arya know this?”

Meera shook her head. “I didn’t dare say, for I wasn’t sure it would come to pass.”

“No matter. It will all work out for the best,” Gendry grinned, rising and feeling hope surge in his chest. He would have patience for as long as it took and all would be well.

“Did Bran say anything else I should know?” 

Meera shook her head. Gendry seemed satisfied with that, but Tyrion, drunk though he was, did not miss the anguish in her eyes or the way she wrung her hands as Gendry turned away.

“Will you excuse me while I go and find my wife?” Gendry asked, already starting down the corridor that led to Arya’s room.

“You won’t find her there,” Meera said quickly, “I’ve had Tyrion’s things put in there.”

Gendry turned back and raised one eyebrow in surprise.

“Every other room is crammed with your men and I knew Arya wouldn’t go near Tyrion’s room,” Meera explained, while Tyrion muttered unintelligibly beside her.

“Do you think you can manage him from here?” Gendry asked, nodding towards the apparently still drunk Tyrion.

“Yes. Off you go and good luck.”

“And you’d better behave, brother,” Gendry growled, jabbing a finger towards Tyrion.

Tyrion clutched his hands over his heart, swayed and slurred, “Lannister’s honour.”

Gendry snorted. “I mean it!”

“Oh all right then,” Tyrion said with an over exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “Now fuck off so Lady Reed can put me to bed like she promised.” 

Gendry winked at Meera who was flushed as red as a poppy. Turning away, he chuckled to himself, striding off with a spring in his step.

“Try your rooms,” Meera shouted after him, “She’s got nowhere else to go!”

Meera watched the Lord Stark leave and offered up a silent prayer for the Old Gods to ease his way. He would save Winterfell, but could he save Arya from herself? Arya the Faceless Assassin. Meera could not help but shudder when she thought of it. No wonder Arya had built such walls around herself. What horrors had she seen? And what had she done in the name of the Many-Faced God? Surely Bran must have known, yet he had never mentioned it and that gave Meera hope. Braavos and The Guild were Arya’s past. Winterfell and, whether she liked it or not, her new husband, were Arya’s future. Meera could only hope that Arya would come to realise that for herself. 

Tyrion interrupted Meera’s thoughts by placing one hand against her cheek and gently, but insistently, turned her face towards his. “You said Bran Stark was an exceptionally gifted greenseer.”

Meera nodded reluctantly, not wanting to discuss Bran with Tyrion. Not yet.

“So why didn’t you believe what he told you?” Tyrion asked, studying Meera’s face intently for her reaction. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Meera cast her eyes down, seeing the concern and tenderness in Tyrion’s eyes made it impossible for her to hold his gaze. 

Bran had been right, Gendry was right; she and Tyrion were inevitable. 

“Because Bran said things about me that I . . . I didn’t think could ever come true.”

Tyrion looked at her long and hard. “And now? Do you think they will come to pass now?”

Meera resisted answering. Tyrion was drunk, but more than that, she needed time alone to say her own goodbye to Bran before embarking on something new with another man. She had never envisaged being able to love another until she’d meet Tyrion Lannister. After all of his disadvantages (Meera counted being born into the House of Lannister the worst of them) and all he had suffered, Tyrion was kind and thoughtful, loyal and passionate and perhaps best of all, he could make her laugh; at herself, at himself and their fucked up, warn-torn world. No one, not even her beloved Bran, had been able to do that for her before. 

She would avoid telling Tyrion the rest of Bran’s prediction tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough. After all, if they were inevitable, what difference did one more day make?

Looking back at Tyrion, she could not help but smile. She had known Tyrion Lannister was the man of Bran’s prediction, the one she would fall in love with, since he rode up to her in the field outside Winterfell and wiped away her tears. No one could have been any gentler or shown her more compassion than Tyrion had then. Meera no longer noticed his ruined face or his stunted body, for Tyrion Lannister was glorious on the inside. 

However, she was under no illusions that he was perfect - a drunk Tyrion Lannister was unfortunately still far more perceptive than any other man was sober. He had asked her a question, one she was loath to answer.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she smiled, changing the subject, hoping to distract him from pressing her any further on Bran’s prediction tonight.

Tyrion’s frown told her that he knew exactly what she was doing.

“All right, but only because you’re so beautiful and I’m so drunk. But you’ll tell me tomorrow.”

“I know,” Meera said softly.

-o-

Gendry pushed at his bedroom door, only to find it wouldn’t yield. Damn. Barred from the inside, so Arya was in there after all. 

His conversation with Meera might have reassured him that all would be well with Arya eventually, but it didn’t help him much tonight. The long, lonely walk to their bedchamber had cooled some of his earlier enthusiasm. He was now beginning to wonder why he had been so ready to trust all that Meera had told him. Hadn’t he promised himself he would learn a lesson after being taken in by Daenerys? Had he believed Meera because she told him what he wanted to hear? That there was a happy ending for the Flea Bottom bastard? When the reality was that his bride had knocked him out and left him for dead on a stair. That wasn’t much of a start to anyone’s wedding.

Tyrion’s advice had been to consummate his marriage tonight and make sure everyone knew about it. Gendry had to admit Tyrion’s advice hadn’t steered him wrong so far.

On the other hand, Meera urged him to be patient. Gendry wanted to be. He wanted to help Arya, to soothe away the hurt and the pain he’d witnessed on Winterfell’s walls. He wanted more than one night, he wanted everything from Arya and, in return, he wanted to be everything to her.

The one thing that Tyrion and Meera had agreed on was that he couldn’t wander around Winterfell on his own tonight. Gendry contemplated the barred door in front of him. He could knock or he could break it down. He had to do something. He couldn’t stand here all night, yearning for the woman on the other side of the door. 

With conflicting advice from Tyrion and Meera, Gendry supposed he was going to have to trust his own instincts, but they were pretty conflicted too. Arya was the girl of his dreams, but she was also a ruthless assassin. She had hurt him, left him for dead, but there was vulnerability in her too; he’d seen it on the wall and in front of the drunken crowd baying for the bedding. She was to be the mother of his babe, but he was more worried than he cared to admit that she might maim him first. With all those different Aryas was it any wonder he wasn’t sure where he stood with her? He didn’t even feel sure of himself tonight.

Insecure, uncertain and desperate to hold his wife, Gendry closed his eyes and let his head drop against the door that she’d barred against him. 

 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, you wanted the climax. I want it too. It’s coming, I promise. Next chapter. I have half of that written, so it shouldn’t be too long. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, thanks to Brazilian Guy for reining me in, keeping me on the right path and for kicking my arse when required ;)


	10. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I let everyone down by promising the ‘climax’ and not delivering last chapter. Sometimes things just don’t turn out like you plan and it takes a little longer to get to where you want to go. Glad you’re still here!

Hearing a dull thump, Arya bolted upright in her bed, years of training demanding that she get off the bed now; that she move silently to conceal herself, that she arm herself and be prepared to use lethal force. But she deliberately smothered those instincts. She wasn’t that person anymore. She was alone in her own bed, safe behind Winterfell’s walls and there was no need to run or hide or kill. Arya forced herself to exhale and to relax. 

The noise could have been caused by any number of different things and all of them harmless; perhaps a log rolling off the woodpile by the fire, a thick slab of snow sliding off the roof or even by masonry falling from Winterfell’s crumbling walls. Listening intently, but hearing nothing more, Arya lay back down on the soft featherbed, pulled the blankets up to her chin and wondered if she would ever learn to sleep deeply again.

A fire still burned brightly in the grate and the moon was still riding high in the sky. She reassured herself that the noise couldn’t have been caused by Gendry either; he would be unconscious for hours yet. Oh, he would be angry when he eventually recovered consciousness and realised what she had done, but she would deal with that tomorrow and anyway, she didn’t regret it. He was a liar and a thief and he would be getting more of the same treatment until he learned to leave her alone. 

Closing her eyes, Arya willed herself back to sleep, aware that sleep would not come again easily. Even before the thud, she had been restless and distracted. She could tell herself that her tossing and turning was because she had slept too long during the day, or that her belly was full to bursting or that she had drunk too much of that sweet arbour wine. But it could also be because every time she closed her eyes she saw heavily lidded, achingly familiar, blue eyes, relived the brush of soft, warm lips against hers and remembered how it felt to be wanted.

This was no use at all. Throwing back the covers, Arya slid out of bed and walked silently over to the large windows that looked out over the still, moonlit courtyard below. Above and in the distance, moonlit shadows moved on the walls. For a moment Arya froze; the Others? But that nightmare thought receded as quickly as it had appeared when the spark of a flint lit up a man’s rough, and very alive, face. The soft, glowing circle in the bowl of a pipe bobbed slowly away into the darkness as the soldier continued on his patrol. 

Knowing there were men on the walls should have been a comfort, but instead it made her even more unsettled. A thousand men Gendry had said. Winterfell had never been guarded so well; at least not since her father’s time. Arya knew her father would have approved. She could not shake the feeling that he would have approved of Gendry too. 

Gendry seemed to know exactly what he wanted and he’d got it; a knighthood from the Brotherhood without Banners, the respect of the Dragon Queen and her army, the Twins, Winterfell. But there was another uncomfortable addition to that list - her. Gendry wanted her for her name and her home and her title and he’d got them all when he’d wed her. No doubt Gendry would have been much happier with Sansa as his wife if that bloody Willas Tyrell hadn’t got to her first. Seven hells, Arya had no doubt Gendry would have wed poor old Septa Mordane if it would have got him Winterfell. 

Arya pressed her heated forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the guards patrol back and forth. Those men were further proof of Gendry’s determination. Gendry took what he wanted and he held it. Arya suspected he intended to apply this same determination to her. But she was equally determined he would not get everything he wanted. 

She told herself she hated him, but still, a vision of her father standing beside Gendry and clapping him approvingly on the shoulder would not leave her. She screwed her eyes shut in an attempt to banish the unsettling image. Thinking like that would only get her into more trouble. She must remember that Gendry’s protecting and feeding Winterfell was only a means to an end for him. She must remember he only wanted her for what she brought to their marriage. She could have been Sansa or Septa Mordane or anyone; as long as she held the key to Winterfell and the North, Gendry would want her. 

Walking away from the window, she slipped back into the warmth of the big bed. She very deliberately shut her eyes and held her breath. She wanted to sleep, to forget all about Gendry and his lies and his treacherous kisses. But she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t, because here, alone in the dark, there was a part of her that was tempted to take what he offered, a foolish part of her that didn’t care why he wanted her, only that he did and, by the Gods, she knew he did. It was in his kiss and the hungry looks he gave her and in the hard press of his erection against her belly as they stood on the stair. 

That same foolish part of her wanted to run her hands slowly down the gossamer silk of her nightgown, over her aching breasts, over her full belly and down between her legs. But she wouldn’t. That would be admitting that she wanted Gendry. If she touched herself while she thought of his blue eyes and warm lips and his strong body covering hers, Gendry would have won and she did not intend to let him win. Ever.

Fisting her hands by her sides, Arya waited impatiently for sleep to claim her.

-o-

On the other side of the door Gendry had come to a decision. He wasn’t about to force himself on his wife, but he wasn’t going to turn around and disappear with his tail between his legs either. The door was solid and barred from the inside, but the hinges were of an old design and open ended. Once the smithy was working again he’d see about getting a decent pair of hinges but, in the meantime, Winterfell’s state of disrepair worked to his advantage. 

A wooden baton had been nailed across the centre of the door and he dug his fingers in under it to test the door’s weight. It was heavy but he was strong, although the pain in his shoulder meant he would have to make this quick. Bracing his legs and gritting his teeth, Gendry lifted the door up until he felt it sway as it came free of its hinges. Promptly setting it down, he held it steady as he edged around it until he stood in their bedchamber.

“Get out,” Arya said quietly, but there was no mistaking the steel in her voice.

The first thing he noticed was that her hand was under a pillow, no doubt gripping a concealed blade. But all thoughts of blades and the damage she might do to him vanished as his eyes travelled to Arya herself. She was bathed in moonlight coming in from big windows, a vision in silver and black; her skin was pale cream and radiant, while her hair, her eyes and her high, hard teats that strained against her thin shift, were contrasting shadows. 

“I said get out.”

Arya’s ice cold demand might have shattered the ethereal beauty of the scene, but his cock was oblivious. Lust roared through him like wildfire. The muscles in his stomach were tight, his throat dry. He couldn’t wait to touch her, but he knew he was going to have to. One day, one way or another, she would be his, but it certainly wasn’t going to be tonight. Still, he wouldn’t get what he wanted by obeying her command, so he held her gaze and told her, “No.”

Gendry watched as Arya’s eyes narrowed and the muscles and sinews in her arm flexed as she tightened her grip on the hidden blade. He was determined to stand his ground so it seemed that he only had two choices; he could continue their battle with weapons, or he could take a chance. He hoped he had not mistaken her reaction on the stairs. If his instincts were wrong, this could end very badly indeed. 

It went against every warrior’s instinct Gendry possessed, but he needed to end the violence and win her trust, so he slowly and deliberately turned his back to her. The hairs on his neck prickled with the same sensation he felt in battle.

Without taking her eyes off him, Arya gripped Needle’s hilt harder and contemplated sticking Gendry with it. Why in seven hells had he come here? He was either very stupid or very, very brave. 

While she wanted to believe it was stupidity that led him to her bedchamber, the uncomfortable truth was that she had underestimated Gendry at every turn. She had taken him for a mere sellsword but, before the day was done, she’d ended up wed to him. Her! Arya Stark who, before today, had prided herself on her ability to read people, to see behind the masks they wore in public. But for some reason, she’d failed utterly with Gendry. Perhaps it was because of their shared history; being in his presence seemed to confuse and confound her and cloud her judgement. She would need to do better and she could start by not being foolish enough to stick him with Needle if she didn’t intend to kill him. To wound him would only make him angry and he was dangerous enough already. 

With a reluctant sigh, Arya slid Needle back into its hiding place.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Gendry’s temple as he hefted the door back onto its hinges. He wondered if the blade, that he instinctively knew was pointed to his back, was Needle. Arya always used to sleep with the Winterfell steel when they were running for their lives. Did she feel the need to protect herself against him now? He flinched at the thought. Surely she didn’t think he meant her harm? She was the one who had attacked him twice and he hadn’t retaliated. Nor did he intend to. He wanted to support her, not fight her. He wanted her to see that they could be good together. 

Once he had the door safely back in position Gendry took a deep, relieved breath. If she was going to attack him again, surely the Assassin in her would have taken the opportunity by now? But she hadn’t. He hoped this was a good omen for the rest of the night. He turned around with a renewed determination win his wife’s trust. However long it took. 

Arya’s eyes blazed furiously as she scowled at him, but Gendry noted with some satisfaction that she no longer had her hand under the pillow. Pausing to gather his racing thoughts, he took a look around the room that was to be theirs. It was big and sparsely furnished, containing only the bed, his war trunk and another, smaller, trunk he took to be Arya’s. After years of sleeping rough or in halls crammed full of soldiers, to be here, with her, was a dream come true.

He was well pleased by the thick furs covering the floor, Arya’s wedding dress hanging on a hook on the wall and large windows leading to a balcony beyond. Presumably those windows could be opened in fine weather, but for now they let moonlight stream into the room. Delighted, he finally turned his attention to his wife, gave a long, low whistle of appreciation and murmured, “Beautiful.” 

“Don’t waste your breath. Your insincere flattery won’t work on me,” she spat.

Gendry frowned and raised one eyebrow as if confused, then nodded and sighed, “Ahhh, I see, you thought I was referring to you?” He grinned wickedly, “I meant the room.” 

Arya blushed scarlet and bristled with furious indignation. 

Gendry’s grin stretched even wider. Of course he’d meant her, but she was so damn easy to tease and, after what she’d done to him, she deserved to squirm a bit. 

“It is a beautiful room,” he continued with a smirk, “I’ve never had a room to call my own before, so you’ll have the pleasure of my company tonight and every night, unless of course you prefer to sleep elsewhere.”

The side of her mouth curled in what looked suspiciously like a snarl. He began to relax and decided to enjoy this. 

“But you have no where else to go either – do you? Winterfell is full to bursting with my men and Meera has given your old room to Tyrion hasn’t she?”

From the poisonous look Arya gave him, he knew she had been there and found that out for herself. 

“While I’m sure Tyrion wouldn’t mind sharing his bed with you, I’m hoping you’d rather share a bed with me,” he grinned, adding a saucy wink for good measure.

This time she did snarl. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Gendry regarded his beautiful wife smugly. He wasn’t leaving, but if Arya wanted to, he didn’t intend to stop her. Her trunk with her things was here, so she’d be back eventually.

“I don’t intend sharing my bed with anyone. You repulse me.” 

Gendry let his eyes drop to her breasts. It wasn’t cold in the room, yet her teats were as hard and pointed as iron tacks. 

“Really?” he asked, with a smile tugging at his lips. “It seems you forgot to tell your body how much I repulse you.” 

When she realised what he meant, Arya self consciously slapped an arm across her breasts. She growled at him through gritted teeth, hoping he would interpret that as a sign of anger, when in reality she was too mortified by her body’s obvious betrayal to speak. Not only were her teats stiff, his long, slow, appreciative perusal of her body had sent her heart hammering so hard, she was sure he would hear it. 

He chuckled and waggled his eyebrows at her, knowing it would infuriate her further.

It did, but at least the renewed wave of anger was enough to jolt her out of her panicked embarrassment and answer him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped, “It’s cold in here.”

“Why would I need to flatter myself when you do such a good job of it already? It’s obvious you want me,” he teased, wishing it was, “Why don’t you just admit it?”

When she gave him a look that said she’d rather die, he added, “And anyway it’s not cold in here, in fact it’s too warm.” To prove his point, Gendry began to remove his tunic.

He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it; the Faceless Assassin who thought nothing of using a treacherous kiss to knock him out on a stair was embarrassed by his admiration of her teats. And what magnificent, dark, pointed teats she had. The thought of lavishing attention on them made him pause with his hands on the second lace of his tunic. He might even have licked his lips as he let his eyes trail slowly down her body to linger in the pool of darkness between her thighs. For a moment he imagined the two of them fucking on that bed. Her hair was braided for sleep and he fantasised about twisting that braid around his fist. With his other hand on her hip and her silk shift bunched up around her waist, he’d kneel behind her, stroking into her pale, perfect body. He could almost hear the slap of his flesh against hers, feel her slick and soft and tight around his cock and hear her breathlessly moan his name as he drove them both to a shuddering completion.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, cutting short his erotic daydream.

Giving himself a mental shake, he grinned, “Getting ready for bed.”

“Not this bed! You can sleep on the floor if you won’t leave.” Arya wasn’t going to let him chase her from her bed. Besides, the thought of having to get up and walk across the room in this transparent wedding shift was enough incentive to make her determined to stay hidden under the covers until he was long gone.

Gendry slowly shook his head. He might have abandoned all hope of bedding his wife tonight, but he was playing a longer game now. He would consider his wedding night to be a success if he could sleep in the same room as Arya and still be alive in the morning. In the same bed would be even better.

It had been a very long day and he hadn’t realised how tired he was until he saw the big feather bed. The fact that his beautiful, nearly naked, wife was in it obviously added to his desire to climb in. He’d sleep on the floor if he had to - he’d slept on much worse, but he wasn’t giving up on that bed just yet.

As he continued to unfasten the laces on his tunic, he had an idea. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “I suggest a truce. Just for tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t immediately refuse. He took that as good sign and pressed on.

“I am tired Arya . . .”

“Oh?” she cut in with a smirk, “I’m surprised. I thought you might have napped on the stairs.”

“Not what I would have called it,” he said curtly, “You’ll not find me so easy fooled by your kisses again.” 

Gendry wondered if now was the time to tell her he knew exactly how she’d spent her time in Braavos. But that would only lead to another fight and fighting with her was getting him nowhere. He would pick his moment to discuss the Faceless Men. For now he would focus on his goal to win her trust. 

“As I said, I’m tired. All I want to do is sleep and that’s a big bed,” he nodded to it, taking the opportunity for another good look at his wife bathed in moonlight. His cock twitched its approval. “I swore I’d not touch you until you begged me to and I won’t. But I’ll need your promise not to touch me,”

“As if I would!” she interrupted scornfully. 

“So you promise not to touch me or try anymore of your tricks on me tonight?”

“Tricks?!” 

Yet again, Gendry had to resist the temptation to tell her he knew about the Faceless Men. She could goad him all she wanted, but she’d get no rise out of him tonight. Well, his cock had certainly risen to the occasion, but that was well beyond his control when he was anywhere near Arya Stark. 

“So what do you say? Truce? All we do is tonight is sleep. Try and stay on your side of the bed and I’ll stay on mine. We can resume hostilities tomorrow.”

“Try and stay on my side of the bed?” she repeated incredulously, “You really think I’d want to touch you? Not even with a . . . a tourney lance!” 

“Yet your body says different,” he grinned, dropping his eyes to one hard teat peeking enticingly out from between her spread fingertips. She gasped and blushed furiously.

He was enjoying teasing her of course, but he was also thinking back to the stair. Not even the most experience whore could have faked such a convincing reaction, much less a virgin. Arya had wanted him then, just as much as he’d wanted her. He was sure of it. Perhaps she realised it too and that was why she’d dropped him like a stone, before she surrendered to her feelings. He wanted to believe that – it was better than thinking she wanted him dead.

“You arrogant rat . . . oh, never mind,” she hissed, clamping her fingers together and hiding that tantalizing teat again, “I don’t know why I’m even discussing this with you.”

He shrugged and unfastened the remaining laces on his tunic. “We can resume discussions again in the morning, if you manage to stay on your side of the bed.”

She arched one eyebrow and gave him a withering look that could have felled an aurochs at fifty paces.

“So we are agreed?” he asked reasonably. “I’m sleeping in that bed whether you like it or not. You can sleep on the floor if you like, but if you do, we’ll both know it’s only because you can’t resist me.” 

Arya glared at him. Why did he have to put it like that? Sleeping in the same bed with him was the last thing she wanted to do, but he’d made it into a challenge. If she refused he would forever claim it as a victory. How smug and cocky of him to think that she couldn’t resist him. He didn’t know that she’d spent years in the House of Black and White learning to suppress every emotion. 

“All right,” she said airily, as if agreeing to spend a chaste night in bed with her handsome husband was an everyday occurrence for her. “And you can rest assured that I will stay on my side of the bed all night.” 

As Gendry shrugged out of his tunic he gave her another long, slow and very appreciative, look over. 

“But you have to keep your clothes on,” Arya blurted out.

It was all Gendry could do not to laugh triumphantly. So he did affect her after all. She had just confirmed what he’d hoped, but hadn’t been entirely certain of. 

The babe that Meera had spoken about seemed to become a little more real.

“It’s warm in here and I can’t sleep will all this on,” he said, starting on the laces of his shirt, “And you’re hardly fully clothed yourself.” 

He was pleased to see her blush and hug her shift tighter to her breasts. 

Arya hissed again, squirming with frustration and embarrassment. Why in seven hells had she told him to keep his clothes on? What had happened to “suppressing every emotion”? She might as well have said she didn’t trust herself around him if he was naked. But he was looking at her as if he was a Direwolf and she was the last lamb in Westeros and that did strange things to the pit of her stomach. Damn him and damn this silk shift. She wouldn’t feel half so vulnerable if she was standing in britches and a man’s shirt, instead of lying almost naked in a featherbed.

The indecent wedding shift had been laid out on the bed and, like a fool, Arya had put it on. Meera had indeed transferred her few belongings to this room, but apparently none of her clothes. So Arya’s choices were limited to - wear the shift, sleep in her stupid wedding dress or sleep naked. Of course, Arya hadn’t been expecting Gendry to turn up. She thanked the Gods she hadn’t chosen to sleep naked, although admittedly the silk wasn’t much better. Gendry’s mouth dropping open when he’d first caught sight of her in it was all the confirmation she needed of that. 

Gendry threw his tunic across the room to land on top of his war chest. “All right, I’ll compromise. In the spirit of truce and because we both know you’ll not be able to resist me naked, I’ll keep my britches on.” 

Arya looked appalled. Gendry had to turn away or he was going to start pumping his fist triumphantly. Arya’s furious blushing delighted him. One day he intended to have her squirming in that bed with a different kind of frustration. If the Gods were good, they wouldn’t make him wait too long. 

Cursing him loudly, Arya slid under the blankets, pulling them up to her chin. Gendry had turned his back to her and stood with the fire in front of him, bathing him in a warm, golden glow. Black hair and black leather britches shone in the firelight, glossy and inviting. His hair fell over his face as he concentrated on unfastening his sword belt. Arya felt free to stare, knowing he couldn’t see her through the silky curtain of his hair. 

Once he had unbuckled his sword belt, Arya watched it glide over his leather britches and the firm curve of his buttocks. Then he rolled up the belt and set his sword on the floor at his feet. Arya ran her eyes up long legs and thick thighs as he straightening up, tugging his white shirt out of his britches. Reaching behind him, Gendry grasped the back of his shirt with both hands and drew it slowly over his head. 

Arya studied him intently as first his lean waist, then his long, strong back, wide shoulders and finally, his powerful arms were revealed. Moonlight etched the line down the centre of his back and shadowed hills and valleys created by thick muscles rolling across his arms and shoulders. He circled his shoulders and extended his left arm, twisting and flexing it, groaning softly as muscles bunched and shifted under smooth, moonlit skin. It was only when he massaged his shoulder where it met his neck that Arya realised he must still be in pain from her earlier jab. Good, she thought, served him right. But as he let out another groan of obvious pain, she stupidly felt a twinge of guilt. She’d hurt him and then knocked him out cold. If he had done the same to her, she would have repaid him tenfold by now, but Gendry had made light of it. He was obviously far more forgiving than she was and, for some reason, that made her feel even worse. 

Just when she was almost beginning to regret what she’d done, he swivelled around, looked at her over his shoulder and smirked, “Like what you see?” His thumbs were hooked arrogantly, suggestively, into the waist of his britches. “There’s much more to see and you only have to ask.”

He tugged at the front of his britches, but before he had the chance to show her more, Arya turned her head sharply away. However, it was not before she’d seen the unmistakable bulge of his erection, silhouetted against the firelight. He wanted her. Men had wanted her before of course, but not one of them had drawn this involuntary reaction from her - heat pooling between her legs and butterflies fluttering low in her belly. She cursed herself for a weak fool as she listened to his low, throaty chuckle.

“You promised to keep your britches on,” she snapped, while staring resolutely at the wall, determined not to give him the satisfaction of catching her gawping again. 

“I’m only taking my belt off.”

Although she wasn’t looking at him, Arya could hear the smile in his voice and then the soft, muffled thud made by his belt buckle as it hit the furs on the floor.

Sauntering over to the bed, Gendry sat down on the edge and pulled his boots off. The bed ropes shifted quite pleasantly under his weight. Arya immediately rolled onto her side and wriggled nearer the far edge. 

He grinned. He’d know she was watching him and from her wide eyes and the hot blush on her cheeks, she’d liked what she saw. If the sight of his bare back had such an effect on her, he wondered how she’d react to his being entirely naked. He was tempted to break his promise and pull his britches off, just to find out, but that was a dangerous game to play. At least with his britches on, there was a layer of leather between the two of them. He wasn’t sure he entirely trusted himself to lie naked in the same bed as his wife, knowing she was nearly naked herself. No, he’d better keep his britches on. That way, even if he rolled onto her side of the bed during the night, they’d both be safe. Not that he had any intention of doing that, but it seemed his cock had a mind of its own around her. His cock didn’t care that she was a Faceless Assassin and was not in the least discouraged by her snide comments or her scowls.

Tonight he needed to listen to his head, not what was in his britches. His head was telling him there was one last thing he needed to attend to before he could allow himself to sleep. Placing one hand in the middle of the bed, he leaned over to her side and called her name softly.

“What?” she hissed without moving.

“That blade under your pillow. Lay it on the floor as I’ve done with my sword.”

She never answered, but he saw her tense under the covers. Surely she couldn’t be surprised he knew? Did she still think of him as a naive ‘prentice Smith?

“The blade Arya,” he repeated when she made no move to do as he asked, “I want no weapons in our bed.”

With a loud, overly dramatic sigh, she sat up in bed and the covers slipped to her waist. She still had her back to him and must have thought the sight of it wouldn’t affect him, for she made no attempt to cover herself up. How wrong she was. The blade was forgotten as his eyes followed the long, strong line of her back, warm and smooth as ivory, until it disappeared into the covers. There, at the very base of her back, he caught a glimpse of one shadowy dimple. His cock pressed painfully against the laces of his britches as he imagined what lay beyond. If he could only reach out to her, one tug of the covers would reveal what his heart and his cock desired.

The Gods must have taken pity on him for, at that very moment, Arya leaned over the edge of the bed. The covers slipped further, revealing the taper of her waist and the flare of her beautiful, heart shaped arse in all its glory. And by the Gods it was glorious. If anything, the gossamer thin shift only served to enhance his view, clinging enticingly to firm, rounded, moonlit curves and creating a deep, dark shadow between them that he longed to explore with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Would she be wet for him? Hope sent his blood thundering through his veins, straight to his already swollen cock.

A soft thud as something heavy landed in the furs by her side of the bed interrupted his fantasy. Arya pulled herself upright and turned sharply towards him, demanding. “Are you satisfied now?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Gendry was leaning over her side of the bed, his weight supported on one muscled arm, his sculpted, bare chest within stroking distance. Her eyes followed the arrow of silky black hair that disappeared into his britches down to the huge bulge straining against his laces. For her. Her eyes flicked up to be met by lust blazing dark and wild in his eyes. She swallowed hard. Why did she have to ask him if he was satisfied of all things? He was looking at her as if he wanted to devour her whole and wouldn’t be satisfied until he had licked up every last morsel. Oh why did she have to think of his licking her? Imagining his tongue on her pulled sensation from the tips of her teats to the apex of her thighs. She dropped her gaze to his mouth. His lips parted in response and his breathing changed. The tension grew between them and she waited. Expectant. Her breathing as ragged as his was.

He hovered over her and she could feel his breath in her hair and smell his seductive scent as she forced herself to breathe, all the while anticipating his warm lips brushing hers, the silken touch of his tongue and the hard press of his body as he covered hers. 

Then abruptly, he pulled away.

“We need to sleep,” he muttered gruffly as he turned away. He rolled onto his side, pulled the cover up to his waist, presenting his magnificent back to her and leaving her bewildered and breathless.

Was this revenge for what she had done to him on the stairs? Or perhaps he was so intent on keeping his promise not to touch her that he ignored her silent plea for him to kiss her. He had been about to. Arya was sure of it, yet he’d pulled back at the last moment. Why?

Did he expect her to make the first move? She tentatively reached out a hand to stroke the solid bulk of his shoulder, but paused in mid air. What if he was playing a game? What if she touched him now and lost their wager? He would crow that she’d been unable to resist him or stay on her side of the bed for more than a moment. He would be insufferable and she would never hear the end of it. 

Confused and frustrated, Arya let her outstretched hand fall onto the bed before flopping onto her back. This had already been a very long day and it was going to be a long, long night. She knew sleep wouldn’t come now, not with such temptation lying within her grasp. 

She lay silently listening to Gendry breathe. No doubt he would be asleep in moments while she was wound tight as a bowstring. Damn him to the seven hells and damn her own stupidity for agreeing to this wager in the first place. He’d thrown down the gauntlet and, like a fool, she’d picked it up. Why did she have to agree to sleep here instead of getting out of the bed, sticking her nose in the air and walking away with her pride intact? But she had never been able to resist a challenge. She was beginning to wonder how much longer she was going to be able to resist Gendry. 

His breathing was deep and even and she could feel the warmth radiating off him. Awake she could withstand this new and troubling desire to touch him – but what would happen if she fell asleep? What if her self control slipped and her body betrayed her again? What if she slid over to his side of the bed and wrapped herself around him just so she could feel his heat and his strength and glide her hands over the solid ridges and hard planes of his body?

Grabbing fistfuls of sheet, Arya ordered her arms to stay fixed by her side. All night. 

 

-o-

 

What the fuck was he doing? Gendry couldn’t believe he’d been about to kiss her. Only moments before he’d promised her he wouldn’t touch her and he’d promised himself he’d win her trust before trying any of that again. But her eyes had been wide and shining, her breathing shallow, her lips parted and beckoning and her teats, Gods her teats, had been straining against that sheer silk, begging for his attention. But he’d been fooled by her that way before.

Still, it had taken all of what? A heartbeat? For him to lean across her side of the bed and succumb to Arya Stark’s allure again. He’d always known he’d fall and fall hard if he managed to find her, but nothing had prepared him for the strength of the emotions he was feeling now; overwhelming lust, the need to claim her, protect her, save her from the darkness that was so obviously part of her and the most terrifying of them all, something he’d never felt before, love. 

He felt as if his head wasn’t working right. He knew his head was never going to win again over his heart and his cock. He groaned silently. Even lying here now, the scent of her filled his nostrils, teasing him, tempting him and making his cock harder than he could ever remember it being before. Seven buggering hells, there was no way he could lie here all night with his cock trapped in his britches while he listened to her soft breathing, knowing all he had to do was turn over and . . . fuck! If he didn’t stop thinking like this he was going to get himself in even more trouble. But she was so close, so delicious, so tempting, so out of his reach tonight.

He tried to think of something else – Edric fucking Storm would do. Thinking about that mother’s boy always put him in a bad mood and, right now, a bad mood was preferable to thinking about Arya’s teats. Like berries, he was sure they’d be succulent, firm and delicious. Seven buggering hells, he’d let his attention slip again. Where was he? Ah, yes, bloody Edric and Storm’s End. Gendry felt for the rage and furious disappointment that was always triggered by the mere mention of Edric’s name, but tonight he felt . . . nothing. 

Gendry tried harder. He visualised Edric’s smug face and imagined boxing his protruding ears, but still nothing. What the fuck was going on? Instead of the usual bloodied, broken, terrified Edric he usually enjoyed imagining, tonight’s Edric looked shrunken and sad, sitting in Storm’s End with his mother fussing around him. And then Gendry realised why his favourite violent daydream was no longer working for him – because he didn’t care about Edric anymore and he didn’t care about Storm’s End or the title of Lord Baratheon either. If he could stay here with Arya for the rest of his life, Gendry would consider himself the luckiest man in Westeros. But that blinding revelation only made his current situation worse, because it crystallised in his mind just how much he wanted Arya right now and forever.

Before he’d made a conscious decision about what he was doing, Gendry had thrown the covers back and jumped out of bed. He’d scooped up his sword belt and taken two strides across the room before he realised he couldn’t just leave or he’d be right back in the same hopeless position of having to wander around Winterfell all night on his own. But he needed to get away from Arya. One more minute in that bed and he’d have her under him while he proved just how fucking much she meant to him. And that would really help him win his wife’s trust wouldn’t it?

Grabbing his white cloak, he flung it around his shoulders and threw himself on the floor in front of the fire. He tugged the fur around him to prepare for the cold and lonely night ahead, only it wasn’t his white cloak he’d snatched up, it was Arya’s and her scent enveloped him, taunting him with another reminder of what lay so close, but also so far out of his reach. 

-o-

Arya turned on her side to watch him go, startled by the suddenness of his departure. Surely, after all that, he didn’t intend to just leave? If that’s what he wanted, why hadn’t he simply left when she’d first asked him to go? To add to her confusion, Gendry snatched up her cloak, wrapped himself in it and dropped down in front of the low burning fire. Did this mean she had won their bet? She should be delighted, but the cold, empty expanse of white sheet in front of her did not please her the way it should. Instead, she felt abandoned and unwanted. What had she done to make him leave like that? Perhaps she’d snored? Arya hadn’t thought she had slept at all, but perhaps the warmth radiating off Gendry had made her nod off, just for a moment. Perhaps she’d made such a snort that he felt he had to leave their bed if he wanted to get any sleep. 

Arya thought about calling out to him, but what would she say? Ask him if he was alright? Why wouldn’t he be? The more she pondered why he’d left and what she should do about it, the more confused she became. But rather than trying to puzzle out why, Arya found her mind replaying the how; Gendry’s long strides, his purposeful movements, the play of muscles under fire licked skin. She started thinking about the moonlight shining on the slabs of sculpted muscles of his shoulders and back, the rock hard curve of his buttocks and the long, thick strength of his thighs and that led her to thinking about the bulge in his britches and imagining what lay beneath the straining leather. And he had the cheek to claim that her body betrayed her! Well, he was no better. Perhaps that was why he’d left? That thought shot a thrill of excitement and power through her, making her teats heat and tighten even more, so much so that even the fine silk of her nightgown rubbing over them felt like a torment. She felt as if she was burning from the inside out. Throwing back the covers, she shivered as the rush of cool air met her heated flesh. Her teats crinkled and grew even stiffer, aching to be touched. 

Unconsciously, her hand trailed over one sensitive nub. She imagined his fingers taking her teat between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing. A fresh jolt of longing shot through her and she let her other hand slide down the smooth silk, dipping between her legs, touching, spreading, seeking something she couldn’t name.

Suddenly, guiltily, Arya drew her hand back but it was already too late; she had felt the slick, unmistakeable evidence of her arousal.

She could bear this no more. Bugger the morning! She would end this thing between them, whatever it was, now. Sliding out of bed, she walked over to him, her feet making no sound in the thick furs. It was the darkest, coldest part of the night, but it wasn’t that making her shiver as she stood looking down at him. 

Black hair fell like night over his brow and the white fur collar of the cape. She could not imagine a more handsome man; his thick, dark brows, long, dark lashes that fluttered over his cheeks, the straight nose, the full lips. But there was more to him than a beautiful face, more even than the conqueror of the Twins; he was determined but also considerate and forgiving. She wasn’t sure if he’d actually forgiven her for what she did to him on the stairs, but she imagined he would. Although he’d no doubt tease her mercilessly about it too. He seemed to like to tease her and she was finding she liked it too. Oh, it infuriated her of course, but it made her feel so alive. 

Even when he was sleeping, she thought the corners of his mouth seemed to be mocking her, curving up in a smile. That was exactly when Gendry’s hand shot out from under the cloak and closed around her calf. 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to Brazilian Man this chapter as it required endless patience on his behalf, but is so much better for his input. 
> 
> I guess your patience is being stretched pretty thin now too dear reader. This chapter was approximately 7,500 words and I need the same again to do this ‘climax’ justice and that’s too much to squeeze into one chapter. Please bear with me - it’ll be worth it!
> 
> See you all soon . . .


	11. Tell me you remember Acorn Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-Dah! Here it is a last – the one you’ve all been waiting for. Hope it doesn’t disappoint . . .

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me,” Gendry chuckled as his hand caressed the smooth muscle of her calf. With a triumphant smile, he slid his hand up to the dip at the back of her knee and tugged. Hard. He would have her on top of him in no time.

Arya panicked. She wasn’t ready for this. Lying on top of him, in front of the fire, with both of them nearly naked? The loss of her maidenhead was suddenly, terrifyingly, imminent; the only remaining part of herself that she’d never used or sold or traded against her survival and Gendry would have it; a man who was only using her to advance his own claims on the North. Desire drained out of her like water down a drain and the reality of what she had been about to do hit her like a war hammer. 

Instinct took over. She had to get away. Simultaneously twisting and throwing herself backwards, she slid out of his grasp. But the moment the warmth of his hand was lost, she was aching for it again. She was a fool.

Air rushed past her as she dived for an empty area of floor, hearing him curse as he lost hold of her and then his sudden bellow of pain and the bone shuddering impact through her heel as it collided with something equally hard. Probably his head. Damn. Her earlier reservations about hurting him again without killing him came flooding back. He was going to be furious. 

 

As his lower teeth collided with his upper ones, Gendry’s head whipped back and stars momentarily appeared before his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tricked again! But he wasn’t going to let her get away this time. 

Launching himself forwards, he managed to grasp one well turned ankle before it flew out of his reach. Arya Stark was about to learn that he had some tricks of him own. 

Trapping her in a vice like grip, he hauled her back and up towards his chest, using his bigger size and heavier weight as leverage. Arya shrieked; her escape thwarted. Clutching her wriggling foot to his chest with both hands, he collapsed backwards onto the furs, dragging her down with him. 

They landed together, with her flailing and kicking on top of him. Narrowly avoiding another kick in the face, Gendry managed to grab her other ankle, clutching her heels to his shoulders while the rest of her bucked against him as she cursed him. Her arse bouncing against his aching crotch added a thrilling, sexual edge to their fight.

Even in the heat of battle, such delicious temptation was impossible to resist. Tugging one shapely foot closer, Gendry licked the arch from heel to toe as Arya shrieked, twisting and turning and grinding her arse ever more furiously against his cock.

 

Arya had never felt anything like it before. Her toes curled and erotic sensation shot up her leg to that secret little knot of muscle hidden behind her soft curls, making her inner muscles clench and tremble, releasing a wicked flood of wetness she was sure would stain her thin shift and betray her arousal. Damn Gendry to the seven hells and back. What was he doing to her? 

How many times had she fought a man? Too many times to count and yet it had never been like this. Was this even fighting? It felt more like a frantic dance; the give and take between a man and a woman that only ever had one, inevitable, end. 

But she wasn’t just a woman and he wasn’t just a man. They were enemies. He only wanted her for what she could give him and that wasn’t enough for her. Was it?

Gritting her teeth and raising her hands above her head, Arya used her core muscles to pull herself upright, lifting her head in one swift, smooth movement from between his knees, the solid evidence of his desire sliding distractingly under her bottom as she rose. 

When she was almost upright, when her hands were fisted to punch him, Gendry suddenly yanked her legs apart, jerking her forwards, forcing her to brace her hands on his bare shoulders and spreading her thighs mere inches from his face. She felt his heart thundering below her, matching the racing rhythm of her own as their eyes locked together. The intensity that had passed between them before on the bed was intensified a thousand fold by the contact of skin on skin and the feathering of his warm breath through the damp scrap of silk - the only barrier between his mouth and her slick centre.

 

Fierce hunger slammed in Gendry’s gut as his nostrils flared, catching the unmistakable scent of Arya’s arousal. His mouth watered, his heart hammered in his chest and blood surged to his cock. He revelled in the feel of her as he tentatively stoked his hands up from her ankles, over lean, smooth calves, caressing strong, long thighs and slowly pushing her shift up as he went. 

Although Arya tightened her grip on his shoulders, she never told him to stop, but she never gave him any encouragement either, remaining unmoved as if she was a maiden carved from ice as she stared down at him. Only her rapid, shallow breathing through moist, parted lips and the dark, wet stain on the silk at the apex of her thighs betrayed any sign that she wanted him. Frustration sang through him, but he silenced it with determination. Tonight was for her. Not him. Gods willing, there would be time enough for him and for them in the years to come.

“Can I kiss you?” The question came out as a deep rasp, lust having made his throat dry and tight. 

As a promise of what was to come, he drew his thumbs over her thighs to stroke them gently down either side of her mound, through the damp silk where it nestled between her legs, where he could feel her wet and hot on his chest. The delicious little sound of surprise she made encouraged him on. He slowly smoothed his thumbs back, upwards, stopping when she gasped breathlessly and clenched her thighs tighter around his chest. A smile curved his mouth as he rubbed his thumbs gently over that secret place and the ice maiden began to melt. 

“Here. I want to kiss you here.”

 

Arya closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. Why did he have to ask? If he’d tried to take instead of asking, she would have woken up from this dream and done what she needed to do. But his hands were gentle, respectful, yet full of promise and his request so tender that she felt dizzy with lust, with apprehension and with something else, something darker, something stronger, something that called to the wild, reckless animal part of her. For the first time she wondered how it would feel to have a man’s mouth on her there, to take pleasure from his lips and his tongue. She’d never craved a man’s touch like this before, not even Jaqen’s, but then she’d never been wound as tight as this before, never had Gendry warm and hard and willing beneath her before. 

She needed to tell him to stop. She needed to stop wanting this. But then he gave her the promise that shattered all of her resolve,

“Only a kiss. Nothing more. Not until you say. Only your pleasure Arya. Only for you.” 

When was the last she had thought only of herself? Why shouldn’t she take pleasure when it was so readily offered? 

She told herself this meant nothing as she eased herself forwards, curving herself over his face, inviting his kiss. It would be a physical act of release and that was all. She had done the same for men, despising the act and them every single time. Why shouldn’t she use Gendry to ease the pent up tension that had been winding tighter and tighter inside her all day? After she found her release, she could sleep and this God-awful day would be over.

Arya braced her arms, her palms flat on his solid shoulders to steady herself. He’d already taken so much from her; she would take all she could from him.

 

Sliding his hands up to her hips to steady her, Gendry felt her thighs relax and her hair brush against his temple as she leaned over him. He buried his face in damp silk and soft skin and inhaled slowly, deeply, before he kissed her taut lower belly, feathering it with soft butterfly kisses. His hands angled her forwards and pulled her down towards his eager, open mouth. She parted her thighs wider for him and he slid one hand down from her hip between her thighs, tentatively stroking sensitive skin, trailing his fingertips through soft, damp curls, parting her folds until he found her soft, warm, wet centre, swollen and aching for his touch. 

She sucked in a sharp breath at the first touch of his fingers there and he grinned against her belly. This was just the start. 

Spreading her slick folds open, he exposed the swollen bud nestled there. His mouth watered with anticipation of that first taste. Licking his lips, he eased forwards and gently kissed her, feeling her shiver above him. When he sucked the nub between his lips he was rewarded with a moan of pleasure that encouraged him to give more. He pressed his hungry, open mouth to her hot, slick centre, nuzzling his mouth deeper and sucking harder, his fingers searching tentatively for the hidden place no man had claimed before. 

Her hips circled above him and she gasped as he stroked and sucked, smelling her excitement, letting it coat his fingers. His groans and growls of pleasure mixed with her own as he stroked his tongue firmly over her, tracing every fold with his tongue, feeling her throbbing against his mouth, making her gasp and wriggle above him. 

When he was sure she was slick enough, he pushed one finger inside. Arya gasped with the shock of it, lifting up, arched backwards, placing her hands on his thighs, offering herself fully to him, sending his desire for her and his need to claim her tearing through him like wildfire. 

Dragging his thoughts away from his own pleasure, Gendry concentrated on the swollen little nub at her very centre, licking with increased pressure in a slow, hot, wet spiral; around and around until she panted above him.

“Don’t stop. Please . . . don’t stop.” 

Her voice had grown tight as she thrust harder down onto his finger and tongue. Knowing she was near, Gendry carefully slid another finger inside her and curved them both forwards. Increasing his rhythm, he didn’t just lick and tease her any more, he devoured her, using all of his mouth in an impassioned attack; lips tongue, teeth, while his fingers inside beckoned for her to come. 

 

To have Gendry between her thighs was exquisite, it was torture, it was . . . too much. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, her body stiffened, jerked and twisted as her orgasm broke. Gendry’s touch sent her spinning, splintering skywards, like a shooting star, bursting with pleasure. Her own cries filled her head as he sucked and stroked, drawing every last bit of pleasure from her. With one last long, deep cry of release from her heaving chest, she pushed herself off his thighs, propelling herself forwards, collapsing on top of him. 

 

Inner muscles clamped down upon Gendry’s fingers, squeezing, giving him a taste of how good it was going to feel when his cock was finally sheathed inside her. Watching her lose control as she found her release, driven by his fingers and tongue gave him a powerful sense of satisfaction, pride and something else that could only be described as possession. She was finally his. Only his, to his dying breath.

Panting, thighs trembling, Arya lay over him, covering them both in long, silky hair that had somehow come loose from her braid. Clutching her hips, he dragged her down until their sweat soaked bodies were pressed together, both struggling to control their shuddering breathing. He could not help but grin as he felt her heart beat wildly against his.

Gendry had never done that before, had never wanted to. Who would kiss a whore? But with Arya, the pleasure was so sweet he already knew he would never get enough. He licked his lips, savouring her taste; musky, tangy, spicy and sweet all together. 

She rolled onto her side, keeping one thigh draped across his hips and one hand on his chest as she curved herself into him, resting her head on his shoulder. As they lay together on the furs, their breathing settled into the same rhythm and he loved the feel of her tucked under his arm, relaxed and sated with the pleasure he’d given her. 

As the moment between them lengthened, he felt relief wrap around him like a blanket, soothing away all the anger and frustration that had built up during the day – during the years since he’d let her go. He couldn’t remember feeling this contented. Ever.

He turned his head slowly to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes feathering cheeks that were still flushed. A surge of possessiveness washed over him. She was his wife. Every time he saw her, she seemed to grow more beautiful. He knew to his cost how dangerous she could be, but at that moment she was peaceful, relaxed and looked as contented as he felt. He suspected she’d fall asleep in a moment, but there would be no sleep for him tonight, not with the scent of her arousal in his nostrils, the taste of her on his lips and his tormented cock straining for release. Only his determination to focus entirely on her pleasure had prevented him from urging her to untie his laces and take him in her hand or, even better, her mouth. 

An unconscious moan escaped from the back of his throat as he visualised his cock sliding slowly between her soft, red lips. Arya stirred beside him and he immediately regretted his momentary loss of self control. He wanted to lie here like this with her forever. He wouldn’t allow anything to break the magic spell that seemed to have descended upon them in the furs and firelight, least of all his own lust. 

Brushing his lips to the top of her head, he murmured for her to go to sleep. Instead, and to his dismay, she pushed off against his chest and sat up. 

 

Gendry’s frustrated groan had roused Arya from her dazed state. It had taken some time for her senses to return as they’d been overloaded and overwhelmed by what Gendry had done to her. It had felt so natural, so right, to let him pleasure her. He had looked so good in the firelight; his dark head between her white thighs, his muscles rolling under smooth skin with every confident movement that she would have had to have been made of ice to resist what he offered and she hadn’t, she’d melted against him and almost fallen asleep in his arms. She’d felt safe and wanted for once. An aching sense of yearning filled her, her emptiness compounded by a new feeling, flitting around the edges of her mind that this was what she needed and been searching blindly for all those years.

It was tempting to lie here and bask in the warmth of Gendry’s arms, to let his heart’s steady beat sooth her to sleep and to lose herself in the dreamy fantasy that she meant more to him than a title and a castle. But that’s all it was – a fantasy. All she was to him was a means to an end. Nothing more. She needed to keep reminding herself of that, for she was in danger of succumbing to the dark magic he seemed to weave around her every time they were together.

Now she felt indebted to him; as if the food, men and weapons hadn’t been enough, he’d pleasured her too. She didn’t like being beholden to anyone, didn’t like that feeling, didn’t like it all. However, she knew exactly how to even the score. 

Reaching for the laces of his britches, she told him firmly, “Now it’s your turn.” 

 

Gendry was confused. Since she’d sat up, Arya hadn’t looked at him or given him a wicked smile, or even a shy smile, or teased him, or reacted in any way he had imagined she would if she truly wanted him. Instead her attention was determinedly focused on his britches, her hands tugging angrily at the laces, as if this was a business transaction to be got over with as quickly as possible rather than love making. This wasn’t what he imagined or what he wanted; he wanted her to be willing, seven hells, he wanted her to be more than just willing, he wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. He certainly didn’t want her to view their bed as some sort of war, where every surrender was regarded as a battle lost.

He caught one of her wrists, “Stop,” his voice sounded louder and harsher than he had intended. 

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, softening his voice as he pushed himself up on one elbows. A frown darkened his face as she turned even further away from him. He felt the intimacy they’d shared a moment ago slipping away like sand beneath his feet.

 

Arya tried to shake off his hand. Why was he stopping her? All men wanted their cocks sucked, but Gendry wasn’t for letting go. As she tried to pull away, his other arm encircled her waist, encouraging her to lie back down with him. 

When she resisted, he blew out a frustrated sigh. 

“Don’t misunderstand me Arya. I want that more than you can imagine, but I don’t want you to feel you have to do it or anything else. That isn’t how I want our marriage to be.”

 

Arya glanced towards him, but dropped her gaze quickly as she caught a glimpse of the intensity burning in those blue eyes and his mouth, still slick with her juices, gleaming in the firelight. A strange, new sensation tumbled through her stomach. No man had ever looked at her like that before, certainly not Jaqen, and she didn’t know how to react. She needed to leave before she did something she’d regret.

 

Gendry caught her chin between his forefinger and thumb and gently turned her head so she had to look at him. 

“Marriage isn’t a death sentence you know.” 

When their eyes finally met, her haunted expression told him that’s exactly what she thought.

“You can trust me Arya. I won’t hurt you.”

 

Arya looked down at his big hand encircling her wrist, preventing her from leaving and groaned to herself. Why did he have to make things so difficult by saying he wouldn’t hurt her? They both knew she’d hurt him already. Was he trying to make her feel guilty for that? Or did he mean something more? Did he mean that, if she let him in, he wouldn’t break her heart?

His asking her to trust him confused her. His asking her to stop when she had been prepared to take him in her mouth confused her even more. Men always wanted that and usually they’d do anything to get it; leaving themselves vulnerable and weak and easy pickings for her. 

Why should Gendry be any different? He had pleasured her yet he pretended he didn’t expect anything in return. Of course he did. But he wanted more than a few moments release in her mouth; he wanted much, much more. Hadn’t she promised herself she wouldn’t underestimate him again? He was playing a complicated game and she cursed herself for a blind fool. Gendry wanted to take everything from her. By agreeing to Daenerys’ terms, Arya had already given him her name, a title, Winterfell, but she wouldn’t give him her maidenhead, or her heart. Would she? 

She tugged against his hold on her wrist, needing to get away from him before her resolve weakened any further.

“Do you remember Acorn Hall?” he asked suddenly, a desperate edge to his voice, his hand gripping her wrist harder, his arm tighter around her waist.

She hadn’t thought on it in years, but at his mention of the place, long forgotten memories returned; of Thoros and the Brotherhood, of Lady Smallwood and dresses but mostly of rolling across the floor of the Smithy with Gendry. They’d been like this before, sprawled over each other, fighting, only it had been innocent then.

“No I don’t,” she lied. 

 

Oh she was good, Gendry thought. If he hadn’t known her before and if he hadn’t been studying her face intently, he would have missed the blink of her eyes and the tightening of her throat as the denial rolled easily off her tongue.

“All right. If you don’t remember, I’ll remind you.”

Not letting go of her wrist, he swept his other hand up from her taut waist to her too-prominent edge of her ribs, where he paused and started tickling. 

Arya gave a little squeal of surprise, wriggling enticingly against him. Her body might be encouraging him on, but her mouth told him, breathlessly, “Stop!”

“Not until you admit you remember Acorn Hall.” 

He redoubled his efforts, launching a two handed tickling attack.

Arya shrieked and twisted and, despite herself, laughed so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She tried to bat his hands away, but he would not yield. When she tried to escape, he wrapped one of his thick legs around hers, keeping her pressed against him as he continued to tickle her mercilessly.

Tears streamed down her face; tears of laughter, but also tears of frustration.

He was a far better opponent than she usually faced. He was no drunken sot or soft merchant. Gendry was a seasoned warrior. She’d known he would be strong, but to her dismay, he was fast and agile too and, worst of all, the more they fought and rolled, the more her hands and hair and limbs tangled with his, the more she wanted.

“Admit it!”

He was insistent and determined and winning - not only this tickling match, but their war; she remembered Acorn Hall and she wanted him. The two of them, laughing, teasing and fighting like this stirred up long forgotten feelings; she’d trusted him then, she’d wanted him to be her pack, but he’d suited himself – without a second thought for her. She didn’t intend to make the same mistake again.

Remembering the hurt and the betrayal she’d felt when he left her for the Brotherhood, made her fight back harder. But each time she tried something, Gendry had a counter for it. 

When she tried to tickle him back, he tickled her harder, forcing her to use her hands to defend herself. When she tried to bring her knee up between his legs, he caught it in his hand, pushing her thigh open and sliding one of his thick, leather clad thighs between hers. After that, every way they moved, his thigh rubbed against her aching centre, reigniting a feverish need that had barely subsided since he had pleasured her before. They rolled around the furs, their legs entwined, the exertion and the heat from the fire making them both sweat and their breaths come in ragged gasps.

Getting nowhere, she gave up trying to wriggle out of his grasp and turned to violence; aiming a punch as hard as she could towards his ribbed belly. When it connected with a stomach that might as well have been made of steel, she was the one who gasped, pain radiating through her fist, while he laughed and caught her throbbing hand in his, dragging it over her head, awakening the memory of him doing the same thing in Acorn Hall, only she didn’t remember it feeling this good.

“Say it – say you remember.”

“Never.”

In desperation to get away from him, before it was too late, she punched him again, choosing her target more carefully this time – his shoulder, where she’d injured him before. This time he grimaced and grunted with pain, but instead of letting her go as she’d hoped, Gendry clamped his free hand around her wrist and dragged that arm up and over her head too. 

“That hurt. I’m going to have to make you pay for that.” His words might have been threatening, but his eyes were twinkling and his expression was full of wicked, sensual promise. She found herself hoping he had something erotic in mind. 

Having both hands pinned above her head forced her to arch her back. Her breasts crushed against his sweat soaked chest felt achingly wonderful and he covered her entirely; thighs pressing against thighs, hips against hips, their breaths mingling, their arms and hands pressed tight together. Although he probably weighed twice what she did, he was careful not to hurt her. The feel of him above her, all male hardness, warmth and strength was more intoxicating than any drug. Her head swam with it.

“Remember yet?” His voice was deep and thick; sliding over her like the silk she wore. “Look at me while you try and deny it.”

She couldn’t.

“I knew it,” he said with a teasing smile.

A blush rose up her neck until her faced burned, but still she shook her head. He might have got the better of their fight, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of winning the argument too.

Keeping both her hands pinned above her head, he pushed against her hips and sat up. One of his legs had already been between hers. Before she knew it, both his legs were between hers and her thighs were parted wide. The renewed pressure from his hard cock only added to the heavy ache where their bodies met. She reflexively arched her back higher, desperate for more. 

“Now it’s my turn.”

Seeing apprehension flicker in her eyes, he grinned wickedly, “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it.”

“Gendry . . .” she groaned his name as he rocked his hips into her, momentarily making her forget what she intended to say as heat flared between her legs, “. . . I can’t . . . I . . . shouldn’t do this.”

“Shouldn’t do what? Enjoy yourself? Winter is coming Arya, we should enjoy ourselves while we can.”

“Gendry . . .”

He silenced her with a kiss. It wasn’t a kiss like the one they’d shared on the stair, it was hungrier this time. Hotter. Harder. Arya forgot why she shouldn’t enjoy herself and why she shouldn’t enjoy him, as need surged in her belly, forgot all about getting away from him as she opened her mouth. His tongue slid in as if it belonged there. She tasted herself on him and that sent another jolt of erotic sensation spiralling through her. His tongue stroked against hers and she shivered with need. Then, all too soon, he broke their kiss and pulled his warmth away. With her hands still pinned above her head, she was helpless to pull his mouth back down to hers and she was left needy and aching for more. 

She wasn’t left wanting long. To her surprise, he dipped his head and sucked her teat into his mouth, silk shift and all.

 

The desperate moan that escaped from Arya’s lips sent lust blasting through Gendry, shooting up his spine, hardening his cock. He slowly rocked his hips, spearing her at the apex of her need and of his need too. They groaned at the same time, before he sucked on her teat again. His hips paused and then rocked into her again, causing another breathless moan of pleasure to escape her lips.

“I knew you’d like that,” he murmured. 

 

The feel of his warm breath over the damp silk made her teats pucker and tighten even more, distracting her further. She wanted to deny she liked it, despite her body telling him otherwise, but before she could, he did it again; suck, pause, rock. By the time he’d done it a third time, she couldn’t remember why she had ever wanted to deny him anything. 

There was no point in trying to stifle her groans now – she couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. She was still tender from the pleasure his mouth had given her before and, with every pull on her teat and with every one of his thrusts, desire and need spiralled higher.

Arching her back, she angled her hips, trying to maximise the friction of his laces against her mound. She barely noticed when he removed one hand from her wrists, until she felt it gently squeeze her breast as his mouth moved to suck on her other teat. She was awash with sensation. Nothing mattered except straining and reaching for the incredible release that seemed to be just out of her grasp. There were too many clothes in the way. She wanted him naked. He had to be naked.

“Take your britches off.” 

The words were out before she had time to think of the consequences. But she didn’t care; at that moment she wanted nothing more than skin to skin, him sliding deep inside her.

He lifted his head and, with a wicked grin said, “I like it when you tell me what to do.” 

“Please Gendry . . .” she moaned, as she lifted into his erection, rock hard and ready. 

His eyes twinkled with mischief in the firelight. “Did you just beg me Arya?”

She hissed with frustration. 

“Shut up and get your . . .” the rest of her demand was lost as his mouth crushed down onto hers, swallowing her words. 

She had never wanted anything as badly as she wanted him in that moment. She felt, rather than heard him chuckle. Knowing she had lost the battle didn’t dampen her desire at all.

He must have moved his other arm without her noticing as he now had two hands on her breasts, cupping them, pushing them together, his thumbs rubbing over soaking wet silk and aching flesh as he took first one, and then the other, between his teeth and sucked. At the same time, he increased the pressure of his thrusts. She fisted her hands in his silky hair, crushing him to her breasts, panting as the combination of the friction on her teats and her mound sent frantic sensations, climbing, gathering, tightening . . .

“Please . . .”

His teeth tugging on her teat, at just the right side of pain, sent her soaring over the edge of another head spinning orgasm. She arched and cried out, jerked and shuddered as her mind and her body seemed to blow apart into a thousand shattered pieces.

Her eyes fluttered open as she felt Gendry smooth sweat soaked hair away from her face. She looked up into smiling blue eyes that were already so familiar to her. She found herself smiling back. A happiness and contentment she’d never felt since her childhood, perhaps had never felt this completely before, settled deep in her chest.

“That was . . . that was . . .”

Arya, paused, trying to find a word to describe what she had just felt; wonderful, amazing, life changing? It was all of those things, he was all of those things. But as her mind began to spiral down from its incredible high, she realised she wasn’t ready to admit that to him. Not yet.

“That was . . . twice.”

“Twice?” he echoed, pretending to frown, “I’ll admit I was hoping for something a bit more enthusiastic than ‘twice’. But never mind, we’ll just have to practice until I can coax a ‘good’ out of you, or maybe even a ‘great’. I’ll not be happy until I do and I’d better warn you – I’m a very determined man,” he said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows at her.

Something tugged at her heart. Something sweet and intimate that threatened to break through those walls she’d built up around her heart a long, long time ago. This was exactly why she shouldn’t get too close to him. She needed to keep him at arm’s length, keep him out. But not tonight. She’d let herself have tonight. Closing her eyes she let her head rest against his chest listening to the solid, steady beat of his heart. While he combed his fingers through her hair she let her mind drift, imagining a safe, happy place, where there was no war or hunger and no Dragon Queen.

 

“Seeing as you don’t remember, I’m going to tell you what happened to me at Acorn Hall.” 

“Mmmm,” she murmured drowsily. 

Gendry grinned and shifted so Arya was sprawled across him; her head resting on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest, one of her legs across both of his and her warm, wet centre hugging his hip. He hoped she’d fall asleep in his arms this time, but not before he’d told her what he needed to. It was clear she was holding part of herself back from him and he didn’t blame her. Why would she trust him? She probably thought he’d deserted her before.

Trailing his fingertips gently through her hair and down the strong curve of her back, he began to tell her softly what had happened to him in Acorn Hall, hoping she’d finally understand how much she meant to him.

“Something happened to me in Acorn Hall. Something that changed my life.”

“Mmmm?” this time her sleepy mumble held the hint of a question.

“It happened to me the moment I saw you in that dress.” 

Although her eyes had drifted closed, the corners of her mouth tugged up. “You told me I looked like a nice oak tree.”

He grinned triumphantly and slapped her arse playfully. “I knew you remembered!”

She squealed and buried her head against his shoulder, hiding her smile. 

After all these years, she hadn’t forgotten. Hope soared in Gendry’s chest.

“You were clean and smelled nice and looked like a girl and . . . and everything changed.”

“How?” she whispered, pressing tighter against him.

He took a deep breath and admitted, “Before that I’d . . . I don’t know, seen you as ‘Arry. Even when I knew you were a girl, you were still just, well . . . ‘Arry.

She stifled another smile as she felt him shrug his shoulders.

“I was young and stupid with it - as you used to like to point out.”

“I did not!” She tried to sit up, but his hand gripped her shoulder and wouldn’t let her. 

“You did too! Now be quiet and let me finish.” 

She heard the smile and the, now familiar, determination in his voice. Too relaxed to argue, she huffed and gave up, snuggling back down on the furs and closer to him.

“So, I saw you in a dress and . . . and I got my eyes opened,” he said slowly, deliberately before pausing, waiting for her reaction.

“Hmmm, you got your eyes opened?”

“I did,” he confirmed seriously, “And saw you as the Lady you were going to be.”

She pushed up on her elbow. He didn’t stop her this time, but kept one big hand cradled around her shoulder as she swept her long hair over to one side and looked at him with heavily lidded, dreamy eyes. 

He held himself still as she traced a finger over first one of his eyebrows and then the other. 

“Did I ever tell you that you’ve got beautiful eyes?”

He chuckled, “No. I think I might have remembered if you had.”

Leaning up she settled both her arms on his chest, so she was gazing directly up at him, “I never wanted to be a Lady.”

“I know,” he shrugged, “But here you are.”

“And here you are,” she whispered, studying his face looking for all the imperceptible ways it had changed. It had, but it hadn’t. He was the same and yet he was different all at the same time.

“And here I am,” he leaned up and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, murmuring, “Right where I want to be.”

They stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, listening to the sound of the fire burning low, of their breathing and their heartbeats.

“Remember when we rolled around the floor of the Smithy?” he asked eventually.

Arya remembered. It was the childish, innocent version of what they had just done. She nodded, wondering why Acorn Hall of all places was the one he claimed had changed his life, when so many worse things had happened to them; at God’s Eye where they’d lost Yoren, at Harrenhal and what about all of the other horrors he must have seen while fighting the Dragon Queen’s war? Surely he didn’t really mean her dress had changed his life?

“I knew in that moment who I wanted and what I was going to have to do to get her.”

Arya realised it wasn’t a place that had affected him, it was a person, “You mean me?” she asked in a husky whisper.

“No, I mean Lady Smallwood,” he teased, trailing his arm down to cup and squeeze her bottom. “Of course I mean you! I realised that if I was to have any chance with you, I had to somehow be your equal. A bastard smith wasn’t good enough for a Lady like you.”

Arya flushed with embarrassment. “I never said that . . .”

“Not in so many words, but you wanted me to smith for your brother Robb in Riverrun. Remember?”

Arya did remember. But that’s not how she remembered meaning it. “I wasn’t thinking about you in that way or about marriage at all. I was so young,” Arya murmured, thinking back to the scared little girl she had been and the shy boy Gendry used to be. It seemed so long ago and they’d both changed so much.

“If I’d gone with you to Riverrun that’s all I would ever have been – your brother’s smith. Do you think the Starks would have let you wed your brother’s smith?” Gendry asked with a snort.

Arya dropped her eyes and focused on her fingers stroking through the silky hair on his chest. She didn’t need to answer that question. They both knew a Lady from the greatest House in the North would never be allowed to marry a mere smith. Even if he was one of King Robert’s bastards. 

“They wouldn’t have let you, even if you’d wanted to,” he said, quirking one eyebrow up at her, waiting for her to say something, hoping she’d say something, at least tell him that she glad she’d married him now.

 

Arya drew a circle in the hair around his small, hard nipple, pushing her finger around and around. She should be telling Gendry that she still didn’t want to marry him, that he’d tricked her into it, that she hated him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not now. So she bit her lip and said nothing. 

 

Gendry tried to suppress his disappointment at her lack of response. He’d hoped he was getting through to her, but he just admitted he’d always wanted to marry her and in return he got . . . nothing. It was a good job he was a patient man. With only the smallest of sighs, he continued with his story . . .

“I never imagined being a Lord in those days, but a Ser – I knew I could be a Ser. You don’t need to be highborn for that, as long as you’re strong enough, brave enough in battle and there’s a war going on, then it doesn’t matter which side of the blanket you’re born on. Tobho Mott always said I was born to hold a hammer. I don’t think he meant a war hammer though,” Gendry chuckled at the memory. “So, I decided I would be a Ser and win some tourney so I could crown you as the most beautiful woman there.”

“The Queen of love and beauty,” Arya said softly.

“That’s it,” he chuckled as he brushed a strand of hair tenderly away from her face, “My Queen of love and beauty. And you’d be delighted of course and we’d be wed then and there.”

“I’ve still never seen a tourney,” Arya murmured, more for something to say than anything else. If she let herself think about what Gendry had just said, she’d be overwhelmed.

“Neither have I. It wasn’t a very good plan was it?” he grinned, before becoming serious again. “When Beric offered to make me a knight I knew that was my chance.” He stroked a finger under her chin and gently tilted her face up so she had to look straight at him. “I suppose you think I deserted you?” he asked, his tone solemn, his eyes questioning. 

Arya couldn’t help herself. She nodded.

He inclined his head and brushed his lips softly against hers. She closed her eyes and leaned in to him, willing him to deepen their kiss, but instead he pulled away.

“It was my only chance of being good enough for you. If I’d gone with you, if we’d made it to Riverrun then I’d have smithed for your brother and that was all I would ever be - a Lord’s smith and I wanted to be more. I needed to be more. For you.” 

Arya kept her eyes closed so she didn’t have to see the emotion on his face, but she could still imagine it; determined, serious, expectant, wanting her to say more, give more than she ever could.

Her thoughts were chaotic, tumbling; all this time she’d thought Gendry had deserted her, when he thought leaving her was the only way to make himself worthy. She’d never considered his point of view before. He’d wanted her for all those years. Really wanted her. Raised himself so high to be worthy of her. She hardly dared believe it was true. She was so confused and conflicted that she hardly noticed he had started talking again.

“But the damned Hound stole you away and then I met Brienne of Tarth and discovered who my father was. The rest you know. All the important parts anyway.”

Gendry paused, wondering if Arya would take the opportunity to tell him about the Faceless Men, but still she said nothing. She just looked at him with those big, grey eyes the colour of storm clouds. Distant. Unreadable. Was he getting through to her? He had no doubt she’d had to harden her heart to survive, but could he break through?

“Once I knew my father was a King, I set my sights a bit higher than just a Ser,” he continued, “Tyrion told me last night that Jon Aryan’s dying words were that my father’s seed was strong. He wasn’t wrong. Once I had something to aim for, I was relentless. I suppose my father must have been like that, before the drinking and whoring and the Lannisters did for him.”

Gendry paused, contemplating his father’s legacy. Being Robert Baratheon’s son was like wielding a double edged sword. There was no doubt in Gendry’s mind that’s where his size, his strength and his single, bloody-minded determination had come from, but so too had his blinkered stubbornness, his ambition and his love of strong drink. At least he didn’t share the old bastard’s love of women. There had only ever been one woman for him and she was lying in his arms right now.

“I intend to come to you as Lord Baratheon. As your equal. For years I did everything Daenerys asked of me. Everything. But I was stupid and too trusting and, at the end, she denied me Storm’s End.” 

“She trusts you with her army, but wouldn’t make you Lord Baratheon?” Arya asked, sitting up, full of indignation and fury with the Dragon Queen on Gendry’s behalf. 

He shrugged and Arya noticed a line of tension between his brows that hadn’t been there before. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re wed. I got everything I wanted in the end.” Raising her hand to his mouth he murmured, “You,” as he brushed his lips softly back and forth across the back of her hand.

Deliberately ignoring his heartfelt admission, for fear the walls that shielded her heart would shatter, Arya demanded, “But why wouldn’t that bitch give you Storm’s End?” 

Gendry closed his eyes and blew out a long sigh before opening them again and saying just two words, “Edric Storm.” 

Arya frowned, not seeing the significance of that name. “I’ve been in Braavos Gendry. I don’t know much about what happened in Westeros. Who is Edric Storm?”

“Another of my father’s bastards, but that one’s a mother’s boy.”

“While you’re your father’s?” Arya asked rather incredulously. She remembered the fat, old drunken Robert Baratheon she had met as a child. Gendry didn’t seem much like him.

“So everyone tells me,” Gendry said, pushing a strand of jet black hair from his face, “And not only in looks. I like drinking and fighting too much but they tell me I can be charming when I try. I’m seven hells of a lot more ambitious than you’d think and I’ve no love for Targaryens. The Usurper’s seed does seem strong in me,” he said with a wry chuckle.

Arya already knew Gendry was ‘charming’- as he put it, and there was no doubt he was ambitious. She considered asking him if whoring was another of his weaknesses, but decided against it. Did she want to know? Instead she asked, “So why Edric Storm and not you?”

Gendry snorted, thinking back to Tyrion’s advice. Until last night Gendry would have replied immediately that Daenerys had given Edric the title because Edric had the better claim, having been acknowledged and having both a noble born mother and father, but now Gendry wasn’t so sure. Tyrion had shown him that there was a bigger game at stake than the one for the Baratheon title. Could it be true that Daenerys had plotted this from the outset? That she wanted rid of him? That she had always intended to send him away to the North? To Arya? 

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “But here I am . . .” he leaned forwards, so his mouth was almost on Arya’s, their breath mingling together. With only the slightest hesitation to make sure she wasn’t about to hit him again, or run away, he said, “And here you are.” 

Tempted as she was to lean into the kiss, Arya needed to know something first, “So that’s why you hid your face from me? Because you weren’t Lord Baratheon? Because you didn’t think you were worthy?” she asked incredulously.

Gendry’s face flushed, but he fixed her with a determined stare. “I’ve proved myself as good as any man – highborn or low – and you’ll not find a better man to be your husband.” Then he softened his tone and expression, “But I’m having seven hells of a job getting you to see that, amn’t I?” 

It was Arya’s turn to blush.

“Although things didn’t turn out as either of us planned, here we are.” He found her hand and they both stared at it as he laced his fingers through hers.

“I want to make you happy,” his voice was deep, rough, his eyes focused intently on their joined hands.

“I used to think being happy was impossible,” she admitted softly.

His fingers tightened around hers. “I could make you happy Arya. Didn’t I tell you? Nothing is impossible to a determined man and I’m a very determined man.”

She looked up at the same time he did, straight into blue eyes filled with affection she thought might, just might, be able to fill her empty heart. 

“Will you’ll let me try?”

She paused, but not for long, before answering, “Yes.”

Saying yes to him felt so right, it felt as if it might be the best decision of her life.

The sides of his mouth pulled up in a grin that could only be described as triumphant, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that!”

She trailed her hand down, over his ribbed stomach, way down past his navel, following the arrow made by the muscles on his hips, down to where the trail of dark hair disappeared into his low slung britches and slid her hand in there too. A deep, hungry gasp rolled from his chest as her fingertips brushed against the slick, wet head of his cock. 

“There’s something you could do right now to make me happy.”

“Tell me,” he managed to rasp.

“You. Inside me.” 

He eased her hand out from his britches before standing up in one effortless, fluid motion, pulling her up to her feet with him. He immediately had one arm around her shoulder and the other behind her thighs, lifting her up, carrying her to their bed. 

“I don’t want you to regret this,” he murmured into her hair, silently praying to the Old Gods and the New that she wouldn’t change her mind.

“I won’t.”

He set her down gently on the edge of the bed and tugged at the ends of her silk wedding shift. 

“I love you in this. But I need you to see you naked more.”

She helped him remove it by lifting her arms above her head. Instead of tossing it to the floor, he held it to his nose and, with his other hand loosening the laces of his britches, inhaled deeply. 

It was the most erotic thing Arya had ever seen.

“If I’m naked then you need to be too,” she murmured, grabbing at the waistband of his britches. “Come here.”

He took a step forwards, obeying her command, watching her with heavily lidded eyes as she worked his laces loose. With a handful of leather in each hand, she tugged the snug britches down. 

His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, bowing away from his belly. Arya wanted to touch it, taste him, and do things with him that she had sneered at before.

Gendry groaned above her as she licking the palm of her hand slowly and then wrapped it around the root of his cock where it rose proudly from a nest of dark, curly hair. With his britches still hanging off his hips, she worked her hand up and slowly back down, exposing the bulbous tip which glistened with more evidence of his arousal. Brushing her hair over her shoulder and out of the way, she licked her lips.

“You don’t have to . . .” Before he had a chance to finish, Arya swept her tongue around and then over the head of his cock, licking up the drop of pre-cum that glinted there in the firelight.

“Gods Arya . . .” he groaned. He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his hips slowly forwards, eager for more. 

Arya grinned and worked her other hand into his open britches, finding his balls and cupping them before she finally took him into her mouth and sucked. 

The sight of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth and the feel of her velvet tongue on him after he’d been so hard for so long, threatened to send his seed shooting right now.

“Stop,” he gasped, wrapping his hand in her hair and gently tugging her back. Her mouth slipped off his cock with a loud “pop.”

“I hope you’re not going to make a habit of telling me to stop?” she said, pouting up at him.

“No . . . just tonight,” he managed to say, “If you want me inside you, you need to stop.”

“All right, but you owe me.” 

Could she be any more prefect? “Lie back,” he growled.

Licking her lips, making sure he knew she was tasting him, Arya lay down on their featherbed, naked, parting her legs wide for him.

He was momentarily distracted by the glorious sight of her. It was even better than he’d imagined and he’d imagined it being wonderful. 

“Gendry . . .”

Was that his name? His head was so empty of blood he could hardly remember. Taking his cock in his hand, he rubbed the head up and down between her swollen folds, blending her slick readiness for him with his need for her. 

Arya’s head rolled back and she clutched at the bed covers to stop the world from spinning with nervous excitement.

“Look at me Arya . . .” 

She did, but she was unprepared for what she saw in his eyes. Lust she had expected, but there was so much more; determination to please her, to do this right, serious intention and deep, deep affection. She might even have thought it love, if she had any idea what love looked like.

“. . . and watch.” 

His voice was soft yet demanding and for once, Arya did as she was told. 

She lifted up on her elbows and followed his gaze, watching as he seated himself at her entrance and pushed.

Her body parted reluctantly and she found herself gasping with need, tinged with pain at the sudden, unfamiliar, sense of fullness. 

Gendry stopped, only partial sheathed inside her, his cock denied by the resistance of her maidenhead.

Trembling with the effort of holding himself back he rasped, “Are you all right?”

“Just do it.”

Reaching for her hand, he threaded his fingers through hers. Their eyes met and he held her gaze as he finally, finally pushed inside her. 

With a startled cry, she dug her nails into his hand. The sensation of being stretched, filled, claimed, grew almost unbearable as he sank deeper and deeper until he could go no further.

His breath came rapidly through gritted teeth, every muscle straining as he held himself still above her. “Are you alright?”

She nodded and shifted beneath him, letting her body adjust and mould itself to his. Testing this new sensation, she squeezed her inner muscles and he gasped, his eyes closing, the muscles in his jaw working as he tried to hold himself back. 

“Don’t . . . don’t move . . . or I’ll not last.”

Arya’s lips pulled into a triumphant grin as she realised the power she held over this magnificent man.

His brow tightened, eyes darkened as he slowly pulled back. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his thighs, not wanting to let him go, sighing with relief when she realised he didn’t intend to pull out fully. When he nudged into her again, deeper this time, inch by exquisite inch, she moaned his name. 

It was pain. It was pleasure. It was wonderful and she wanted more.

When he eased back again, she clung to him, pulling him down on top of her, wrapping her arms and her legs around him, arching her back, thrusting her hips, wanting all of him.

She was strong and it was all Gendry could do pull away from her again before sinking back down, balls deep this time. When she squeezed his cock seated deep inside her, he lost his mind. He couldn’t hold back; not his brain, not his body, not his cock. He lifted back and drove into her, hard, fast and deep, again and again as she urged him on. 

The panic of his impending orgasm rushed towards him and his body reacted the way it always had before, every taut muscle screaming at his pleasure soaked brain to withdraw, withdraw, withdraw. 

But not this time. 

She was his wife. There would be no bastards born from this.

He buried his face in the side of her neck and thrust into her, harder and faster with every stroke, grunting with the effort of holding back until she was ready to come with him. Just when he thought he couldn’t last any longer, she arched off the bed, her body rigid, her inner muscles clamping down on him like a fist, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing and his control shattered. 

His own release exploded through him, blasting sensation through his balls, his cock, racing down his thighs and flashing up his chest. Wave after wave of thrilling pleasure engulfed him as, for the first time, Gendry spilled his seed inside a woman. Not just any woman. Arya. His heart’s desire. His wife. 

Spent, he lay still in her arms, still sheathed inside her. Arya held her to him, repeating his name over and over, kissing his face and hair. Closing his eyes, he thanked the Gods for answering his prayers. But, ambitious bastard that he was, he wanted more. Wrapped in his wife’s loving embrace, he offered up another silent prayer; if the Gods were good, his seed would take root and Arya would bear his babe. A Stark. A true Lord of Winterfell.

 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot enough for ya? Hahaha – it’s certainly the hottest chapter I’ve ever written. Three orgasms for Arya? Three??? Lucky girl.
> 
> Pre-empting some of your comments about Arya being a Faceless Man and therefore invincible so how could Gendry possibly win their fight? Can I just say that I don’t see the Faceless Men as being invincible. Jaqen was caught and trapped in a cage when Arya first met him after all – wasn’t he? They’re undoubtedly the best at what they do in the GRRM world, but in this story so is Gendry. In a physical fight, where she doesn’t want to kill him, his having the longer reach, being twice her weight and stronger is always going to give him the advantage.
> 
> So, yet again, I have to thank Brazilian Guy for his help. I had to ask him to put himself in Gendry’s head for this chapter and he gave me some great input on what Gendry might have been thinking that day in Acorn Hall. I know I keep saying it, but BG is a great help, inspiration, arse-kicker-when-needed and all-round awesome Ficfriend.
> 
> Although he’d never admit it, I suspect there’s a little bit of BG that would quite like to be Gendry and, let’s face it, there’s a whole lot of us that would like that too.
> 
> ;))
> 
> Let’s hope BG isn’t easily embarrassed and that he’ll forgive me for that (and come back next chapter to help me with some more hot sex!). 
> 
> If you’re looking for something to fill the hole until then, BG wrote a hot Fanfic story himself. It only took him 6 years from start to finish, but hey, I’ve been keeping him busy recently! Don’t let the fact that it’s Naruto put you off because the 3rd and last chapter has some smokin’ sex in it. 
> 
> ;))
> 
> I’ll be back again asap . . .


	12. The morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay – AGAIN. Unfortunately mum had to go back to hospital, which meant my dropping everything . . . again. Last time this happened, I received lovely messages of support; with some coming from people in hospital themselves. Fic is certainly an escape from reality for me and it seems I’m not alone. So, for anyone who has ever been stuck somewhere, wishing they could go anywhere – this is for you.

The fire had burned out and only the soft glow of embers illuminated the room. Although spring was coming, the nights were still long and dark but, for once, Arya was glad of it. In a few more moons, dawn would have broken by now and the day would need to begin, but not yet . . . not tonight. Tonight, in the dark, Gendry’s warmth still enveloped her; his heavy arm still rested on her hip, his firm thighs pressed behind hers, the solid breadth of his chest brushed against her back with every contented breath. Best of all she could feel the hot press of his desire between her buttocks, hard and ready. For her. 

Rolling her hips, Arya savoured the unfamiliar burn between her thighs. She was tender from what they’d done earlier, but it was a discomfort she welcomed, for she was also wet and ready. For him. 

Something had changed, something more than the smear of blood on a sheet. Arya felt different. Here she was, contentedly naked in a man’s arms when yesterday she would have sworn she hated being touched. She felt . . . warmer, softer. The Gods knew her body wasn’t womanly or soft, she’d trained far too hard for too long for it to be anything but hard and unyielding, yet Gendry made her feel as if she could be more than that. As if she could be . . . loved? Arya grimaced at the foolish thought. As if anyone could love her after all the things she had done . . . but Gendry made her feel as if he might.

He had washed her tenderly when her maiden’s blood and his seed had smeared her thighs. He had trailed kisses over the bones of her hips and her concave stomach when she had tried to hide her too thin body from him. He’d laughed and told her she’d soon be fat as an old Septa if she kept eating the way she had at their wedding feast. He’d told her he wanted to see her belly swollen with his babe. Something deep and powerful had shifted inside her then; something that terrified her in too many ways to understand.

Gendry claimed to want Arya Stark, to have always wanted her. But did that Arya Stark exist anymore? She had spent so much of her life as No one, denying her own identity, becoming whoever she needed to be in order to survive. What if there wasn’t enough of Arya Stark left for Gendry to love? What would happen then?

A desperation to hold him tight gripped her and she rolled over abruptly, so they were face to face.

He stirred with a soft sigh and a slow smile that spread across his face. Even in the darkness, she thought him so handsome. He always had been she supposed, not that she’d realised it back then. Reaching out, she cradled his face in her hand. The roughness of his morning beard scraped against her palm and his grin widened.

The big arm that had been resting on her hip, reached for her and dragged her towards him so their hips were pressed together, his erection trapped between them. 

“My Arya,” he murmured as he buried his face in her hair and inhaled, as if he liked her smell, as if he really wanted all of her as he claimed, as if she wasn’t only a means to an end. Arya pushed that thought away. Not tonight. She would think about that later, in the morning perhaps or even tomorrow. But not tonight. Tonight she was going to grab onto this new thing between them and not let go.

Wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him even tighter against her, knowing that however good this felt, it would never be enough until he was deep inside her again.

She rolled her hips against his, encouraging him to take her again. 

“Are you not sore?” he whispered into her hair. In answer to his question, she arched against him, crushing her breasts against his solid chest and his erection deliciously into her belly. She was rewarded with another, deeper groan that told her he shared the need she felt.

He curled her fingers around his and squeezed, murmuring softly. “I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.”

“I’m not too sore and I . . . I want you.”

There was a pause, the still air only broken by their breathing.

Taking their joined hands, Gendry pulled them lower, down to his erection lying thick and hard and ready against his belly. “I want you too.”

When her finger tips touched his shaft, he groaned, “If you want me. Take me. I’m all yours.”

His other hand found the back of her thigh and lifted it over his hip, so that her sex was exposed to his. She gasped with the thrill of it as he thrust his hips, stroking his cock against her achingly sensitive centre. 

“Ride me.” His voice was gruff with sleep and desire. “That way you can take me as slow or as fast or as deep as you like.” 

He didn’t need to tell her twice. Shoving at his shoulder, Arya rolled him easily onto his back. Then she straddled his thighs, bracing herself over him, her hair spilling onto his chest, looking down at him. “I’m an excellent rider.”

“I knew you would be.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

With the moon and the fire gone, all that illuminated them was starlight. Gendry was a solid, black shadow against white sheets. She could see his eyes sparkle and his teeth when he grinned, but his body, hard and warm under her felt ten times more real than anything she could see.

He lay still, breathing heavily as she swept her hands down the smooth, bare skin of his flanks to his waist, tracing the curved muscles of his hips down further, bringing her hands together until her fingertips found his cock, stopping as it jumped under her tentative touch.

Gendry made a ragged, hissing sound through his teeth and his entire body seemed to quiver as she raked her nails down his length, finding his balls.

“Fuck . . .” he moaned as she drew light circles over them, before running her nails back up, exploring his girth and his length, wondering how he had ever fit inside her. Then she did it again, smiling to herself as he bucked up against her when her nails explored under his balls. 

“Take me,” he hissed gruffly. 

Was he begging her? Or ordering her? However he meant it, Arya had no intention of complying just yet.

“But I’m not ready,” she lied, feeling another surge of wetness between her thighs.

The mighty warrior, the Conqueror of the Twins, Lord of Winterfell, was helpless beneath her. She was the one in control now. She found she liked that feeling and wasn’t going to relinquish it too quickly. 

“Besides,” she teased, “I recall you stopped me last time and now you owe me.”

Keeping one hand under his balls, she wrapped the other around the root of his cock. He raised his shoulders off the bed, glittering eyes watching her intently. She made sure to keep her eyes locked on his as she bent down and angled his cock towards her mouth. She knew he couldn’t see much in the darkness, but he could hear and he could certainly feel.

Brushing her lips against the head of his cock she whispered, “This. Is. Mine.” 

With every word and every soft glide of her lips he gasped and rolled his hips, desperate, begging wordlessly for more.

Repeating what had driven him to the brink before, she swept her tongue over the tip of his shaft, tasting his essence, savouring him and enjoying it, something she had never thought possible. Her pleasure was heightened by the quivering strain in his hips as he tried to hold himself back from thrusting into her mouth.

“Not yet,” she murmured, licking him up and down, tracing every vein and ridge with her tongue while working him with her hands. His breathing was getting faster, more ragged, but she still wasn’t going to take him into her mouth.

“Please . . . more . . .” 

She grinned wickedly, knowing exactly what was going to drive him wild.

“Ahhh . . . Gods Arya,” he gasped, bucking as she sucked on one of his balls and then the other.

She grinned, enjoying this, his pleasure becoming hers. Hummed against his balls, she asked, “Did you just beg me Gendry?” 

“Fuck . . .” he moaned, unable to answer. He couldn’t even remember the question. Was there a question?

When he didn’t reply she sat up, pouting, “Did you just beg me Gendry?”

Had she asked that before or had he imagined it? Was she laughing at him? Gods, he didn’t care if she would just . . . take . . . his cock . . . in her mouth.

“Yes. Gods yes Arya,” he gasped, trying to reach for her, only to have her wriggle away, out of his grasp. Frustrated, he collapsed back onto the bed.

“Seeing as you begged so nicely, I’m going to give you what you want.”

What he wanted? Then why was she still talking? He wanted her to finish what she’d started, to suck him off until he came deep in her throat. That’s all he wanted. So why in seven hells was she sitting up? And damn but why was it so dark? He wanted to see her. All of her. But at least she was still straddling his thighs, still within reach. He made another grab for her, but she batted his hands away giggling. Seven hells, but he loved that sound.

“You want me to ride you.”

A renewed jolt of lust hit him hard as she rose up on her knees.

“Didn’t you?”

He needed to answer, but his throat was too dry, too tight. He managed to choke out a rough, “Yes . . .” 

She lowered herself until she was pressed onto the length of his cock. She was hot and wet and real and a thousand times better than any dream he’d ever had. And that was before she began to move, rolling her hips, slowly rubbing herself up and down his length. He grasped the strong curves of her thighs and held on as she rocked. It was wonderful, thrilling, but it wasn’t enough.

“Gods, Arya . . . don’t tease me. Lift up. Let me in.”

“Help me,” she whispered hesitantly, “. . . I don’t know how.” 

His mind was spinning, befuddled by lust, but somewhere it registered that there was something awry here. Arya was so confident, so in control; the way she moved, the way she took him in her mouth, that he could have mistaken her for an expert. She knew exactly how to tease him - up to a point. But it seemed she had no experience beyond that, save what he had given her earlier and, by the Gods, he was glad of it.

“Lift up.” 

As she pushed up onto her knees, he took hold of his cock, already slick with her juices and positioned it under her centre. “Lower yourself slowly.” 

With the other hand still on her hip, he guided her down onto his shaft. They both gasped as the tip slid home; him with pleasure, her with pain. He froze, remembering his promise not to hurt her, “We can stop if you want to.” 

Arya might not have been able to see his expression, but she could hear the tenderness in his voice and her frozen heart melted a little more. She’d thought men were only concerned with their own pleasure, but not Gendry. She knew he would stop if she asked him. That only made her more determined to please him.

Rising up a little, she sank back down, grimacing at the stretch and burn.

“Arya . . .”

“I want to,” she said determinedly, cutting him off.

This time was easier as her body seemed to remember and she was able to take another few inches. The sensation of being steadily filled by him began to replace the pain with pleasure.

“Slowly . . .” he cautioned, but her earlier arousal had returned with a vengeance and she wanted all of him, deep, deep, deep inside her. 

Lifting up and then bearing down, again and again, she managed to take everything he had; the feeling of his hands gripping her hips, the sound of his ragged breathing, of him stroking her inside was indescribable. Now she knew what it felt like to have him pulse and spill deep inside her, she strove towards that goal with as much determination as she approached everything else in her life. An almost desperate abandon possessed her as she pushed up and down. That strange tension she had felt before climbed and climbed towards the soaring, shattering release she knew was waiting for her. 

Although, she’d experienced it only a few hours before, she couldn’t remember how to get there, felt as if she had lost her way and didn’t know how to get back. Her inner thighs and buttocks burned as virgin muscles started to protest. Instead of growing nearer, that final, glorious release seemed to be slipping further away.

Gendry grunted rhythmically beneath her as she drove down onto him. She wasn’t sure if it was with the effort of urging her on or of holding himself back, but his hands were beginning to slide on her hips as they both became slick with sweat. 

“I . . . I can’t . . .” she gasped as the sweet relief she craved remained just out of her reach. “Help me Gendry.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No!” she nearly roared at him with frustration. Did he not understand? She wanted him to fuck her hard and deep and make her come.

She might even have said those things aloud as he abruptly lifted her up and off him and rasped at her to get on her knees. Again, she couldn’t tell if he was begging or ordering, but she did it anyway, not caring that her bottom was in the air, or that her sweat soaked hair stuck to her face. She felt, empty, bereft without him. All that mattered was him inside her and their earth shattering release.

Swiftly, he was behind her, his thighs pressing hers wider apart, his hand on the back of her neck, gently encouraging her to lower her head and then his breath was hot against her ear and he was calling her his she-wolf. 

She’d dreamed this before, as Nymeria, but nothing had prepared her for the wild, power that surged through her and gave her the confidence to act like the woman she wanted to be, but wasn’t. Nothing had ever thrilled her more than his whispering in her ear as the head of his cock, thick and round and slick pushed up and in, stretching her in ways she hadn’t imagined. His hard thighs burned against hers and the only sound was the slap of slick skin on skin as he pushed all the way in. She’d done this before in dreams, in the dark, under the stars and the desire to lift her head to the sky and howl formed at the back of her throat.

“Are you alright?”

A moan of pleasure was all she could manage.

His hands gripping her waist held her steady as he withdrew and plunged in deeper, forcing her body to stretch to take him, spearing pleasure through her, but with an edge of pain, just enough to remind her that she was Arya and that this wasn’t a dream. 

He thrust again and again, quick, hard and deep, forcing an almost inhuman growl from the back of her throat. 

His hand moved from her waist, pausing to cup her breast before wrapping around her jaw and turning her head where his mouth closed on hers, kissing her hard with passion that could only be described as . . . animal.

She thrust her bottom back against his hips, demanding more. He complied, clenching his thighs and his arse and driving into her. Both of his hands found her breasts, cupping them, pinching her teats as he pumped his hips into her again and again, harder, faster. She arched and cried out, shivering with the power of the wolf and the orgasm trapped inside her. 

His forehead was pressed against her back, his gasping breaths hot against her skin, ordering, or was it begging? “Come for me Nymeria.”

It was enough to send her plunging over the edge. Her throat closed around a howl as her orgasm lunged from deep inside her, like wildfire burning through her, engulfing every part of her in white, hot ecstasy as he pumped his seed into her, the two of them shaking and trembling with the intensity of it. 

When they’d caught their breath and collapsed together onto the bed, legs and arms tangled, bodies sweat soaked and sated, she had to ask, had to know if she’d imagined it, “What did you call me?”

His eyes were closed, his chest heaving but he repeated it slowly, lovingly, “Nymeria.”

Rolling over so that they were face to face, their still ragged breaths mingling, she asked him why.

He didn’t immediately answer, considering his reply as his fingers absent-mindedly trailed down her side, sending shivers of pleasure through her.

“When I first saw you yesterday, riding that drawbridge down with your furs and your hair flying, I thought you looked like Queen Nymeria, standing at the prow of her ship as she crossed the narrow sea.”

Gendry drew a circle lightly on her hip with his fingertips as he watched Arya frown. He wasn’t being entirely honest with her and he suspected she realised that. His vision of Queen Nymeria had been part of the reason that name had escaped his lips in the frantic, mindless moments before his release. That was part of the reason; the other part was harder to admit, but if he expected her to be honest with him, then he had to be honest with her. Gendry wanted no secrets between them, so he had to start as he intended to go on,

“Because of that and because fu . . .” he almost said ‘fucking’ before he stopped himself. What they did was much more than that. Fucking was what you did with whores, not your wife.

“. . . because being with you like that felt so . . . animal,” he admitted warily, feeling embarrassed, watching for her reaction, but in the dark he could see none so had to press on, “Tyrion calls you ‘she-wolf’ and I suppose I was thinking of that, the way you looked this morning, the position, the name of your wolf . . . . maybe I wasn’t thinking at all . . .”

She silenced him with a finger pressed against his lips. “I liked it. I liked everything about it; the name, what you did, the way you did it.” 

Arya hadn’t scoffed or laughed at him. She knew what he was trying to say. Their ability to understand each other this way after so short a time made it feel as if they’d never been apart, as if they’d known each other for a lifetime. He’d intended to ask her about Braavos, the Faceless Men and most of all about Jaqen H’ghar, but in that moment it didn’t matter; nothing during the time they had been apart mattered. Gendry had her now and that was enough.

 

-o-

 

It was light by the time Gendry left Arya asleep. Closing the door gently behind him, he strode along the corridor with a spring in his step. Once he was sure he was out of earshot, he started whistling the first jaunty tune that came to mind. He was at the chorus before he realised it was ‘The Maids that Bloom in the Spring.’ Gendry chuckled to himself as he walked and whistled. Now wasn’t that appropriate, given the way Arya had bloomed for him last night? 

The first time Gendry had hear that song had been at the Peach. Tom O’Sevens had been singing it inside, while Gendry stood outside, listening to everyone else enjoying themselves, feeling wretched and sorry for himself, though not half as wretched as he’d felt later - after Arya had scorned him for suggesting he was her brother. He’d only been trying to protect her from some drunken fucker and she’d made him feel as if the gulf between them was wider than the Shivering Sea. 

Still, everything had turned out perfectly. If only Lem had lived to see it. Gendry grinned, which was hard to do while whistling, as he imagined old Lem’s face. Gendry wed to Arya and Lord of Winterfell! He wouldn’t have been able to resist crowing, “Told you so!” to Lem. No doubt that would’ve earned him yet another cuff around the ear from the old git. Remembering all the other times Lem had cuffed him because of Arya made Gendry chuckle and forget where he was in the song.

Lem had been was the first one to notice how keen he was on Arya, probably before Gendry even admitted it to himself. He’d lost count of the number of times the old man had clouted him for mooning over her. No doubt that was one of the reasons Lem and the rest of the Brotherhood had given him a hard time at the Peach. They’d wanted to make a man of him and Lem wanted him to accept his limitations; that highborn ladies weren’t meant for Flea Bottom bastards like him. But that was long before he’d know his father was a King. 

The scene that greeted Gendry when he reached the foot of the stairs reminded him of some of the hungover mornings at the Peach. Bodies lay strewn everywhere in various states of undress. The whole place smelled of stale wine, piss and sex and he no longer felt like whistling as he picked his way around snoring men and dishevelled women. Much as he wanted to bellow at them all to get up, he wouldn’t. They’d earned last night and they deserved this morning to sleep it off. But tomorrow the real work had to start. They had much to accomplish at Winterfell before the road north was passable and they could march for the Wall. Until this morning, Gendry hadn’t allowed himself to think that far ahead; he hadn’t dared to look beyond winning Arya’s hand, but with that battle won, another more terrifying one loomed.

The realisation that he would have to leave Arya so soon settled like a lump of lead in Gendry’s belly. He’d finally found a home and already he had to think about leaving it. There was no way of avoiding it; Daenerys had been right – the North, Winterfell and therefore Arya, would never be safe until the Wall was secure. With no word from the Night’s Watch since the start of the winter, ho knew what they would find at the Wall. Perhaps the Others were already on their way. Gendry shuddered. The sooner he could leave the better it would be for the North, but the worse it would be for him. He was already dreading leaving Arya, but everything always seemed worse on an empty stomach. 

Gendry made his way thorough the reeking corridors to the kitchen. The only folk who were awake seemed to be children; dozens of them, running wild amongst the debris of the feast. 

A quick sprint across the courtyard, through a flurry of late winter snow flakes, took Gendry to within sniffing distance of the kitchens. The smell of fresh bread and bacon made his belly growl its approval. Making love to your wife certainly gave a man an appetite and Hot Pie’s excellent cooking was just what he needed to fortify himself for some more.

Shaking snowflakes from his cloak and rubbing his hands in anticipation, Gendry trotted into the immense kitchen. Only very young children and old women sat at the long tables; he’d already seen that the older children were otherwise occupied.

“You’re late,” Hot Pie scolded, looking up from the huge pot of porridge he was stirring.

“It’s my wedding morn’ and it looks like I’m still here before anyone else.”

Hot Pie snorted, “Are you forgetting about all them on guard duty? I’ve already fed two hundred men coming off and another two hundred going on – with only babes and old women to help me. There’s not one ‘o those useless kitchen maids to be found this mornin’.” Hot Pie huffed. 

Gendry was a brave man and even he wouldn’t dare interfere with Hot Pie’s cooking schedule. He suspected those maids would live to regret their night of carousing. But Gendry had more urgent matters to consider, namely his breakfast. His mouth watered as Hot Pie cracked six eggs into a pan. This was going to be a good day; Hot Pie normally rationed him to three.

“It looks like you had good helpers anyway,” Gendry chuckled, pulling a chair up to one end of long table and ruffling the red hair of the boy nearest to him. ‘Kissed by fire’ the northerners said. That had to be lucky too. Yes, this was going to be a very good day Gendry thought as the boy grinned up at him, his cheeks filled to bursting with porridge.

“At least you missed Ser Peake and his cronies. There were up right early and Lord Tyrion too. How that half-man puts away the amount of food and drink he does is beyond me,” Hot Pie grumbled. 

“If Tyrion was here he’d tell you it’s because he’s got three legs, but that only two of them are hollow,” Gendry laughed, giving the boy’s hair another rub for luck. “Where’s Tyrion now?” He was looking forward to sharing his good news.

“South gatehouse, last I heard. Ser Peake too. I don’t trust that one - he never eats his greens. You can’t trust a man who never eats his greens.”

“Agreed,” Gendry chuckled, thinking that, of all the other reasons he had not to trust Ser Gorman Peake, “But Queen Daenerys trusts him, so we’re stuck with him and if doesn’t eat his greens then there’s all the more for the rest of us.”

Grumbling to himself, Hot Pie finished cooking Gendry’s eggs and hurried over with a plate piled high. Gendry had a spoonful on the way to his mouth before Hot Pie had managed to get the plate on the table.

“Hmmmm,” Gendry mumbled through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, while nodding enthusiastically, “Best yet. Whatever you’ve done this morning, keep doing it.”

“Brandy,” Hot Pie said casually, as if putting hard liquor in a man’s breakfast was usual. Gendry spluttered in disbelief, nearly choking on the eggs in the process.

“Don’t you even think about not eatin’ ‘em! I’ve got the finest Tyroshi Brandy in there, with butter, cream, chives and a touch o’ pepper,” Hot Pie said proudly, before leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “I figured you’d need a bit ‘o a pick-me-up after last night.”

After swallowing hard several times, Gendry managed to compose himself. Perhaps Hot Pie was right. It had been the best night of his life after all. “I’m not going to give details, but let’s just say it was seven hells of a night,” Gendry grinned, winking at his fat cook.

Hot Pie gave him a disapproving stare, folded his big arms across his even bigger belly and asked, “So who was she then?”

Gendry frowned, confused. “What do you mean ‘who was she’? Arya of course.” Had Hot Pie gone mad? 

Hot Pie arched one bushy, floury eyebrow as if he doubted Gendry. “I heard you was wandering around on your own, long past your beddin’ time.”

“I heard you slept in the stables,” the red haired child piped up. 

Hot Pie nodded, “Me too.”

Gendry looked from one to the other incredulously. “Why would I sleep in the stables when I had the most beautiful woman in Westeros in my bed?”

“If I had a ‘orse like yours, I’d sleep in the stable too,” the young lad said seriously.

Gendry was about to laugh at the absurdity of it all, when a bitter old voice spoke up from the other end of the table. “He slept in the stables because our Lady wouldn’t lie with the likes of him. She might have had no say in the marriage, but she’s got a say in who shares her bed and she don’t want him.” A bony finger poked in Gendry’s direction. “Our Lady went to bed alone and locked her door. Bess the chamber maid seen her do it.” 

Everyone fell silent, the air in the kitchen suddenly heavy with tension as Gendry stood up slowly, his chair legs scraping loudly across the flagstones.

If she hadn’t spoken, Gendry might have mistaken the old crone at the opposite end of the table for a bundle of rags. The other old women at the table looked studiously into their bowls as Gendry strode purposefully down the length of the table, the spurs on his boots ringing ominously with every long stride. 

He stopped in front of the hunched old crone and stared down into shrewd, milky eyes. “Who are you?”

“The widow Cassel. My son was Captain of the guard here until your father took him south. He died with Lord Stark in that rat’s nest at King’s Landing.”

The old woman coughed loudly, hacking up some phlegm that she spat on the ground at Gendry’s feet. He grimaced, realising this was the same crone who had questioned Arya in the Godswood and she was obviously a trouble maker. 

“I’m sure your son was a brave man and you have my condolences on your loss,” Gendry said, looming over her with his hand on the pommel of his sword. He rattled the steel in its scabbard, startling the old woman and making her shrink away from him. “But I am your Lord now. Disrespect me again and you’ll force me to make an example of you crone. Do you want me to lock you in a cage and hang you from my castle’s walls as a warning?” 

“I ain’t afraid of dying,” she said, meeting his stare with a defiant one of her own.

“Maybe that’s just as well, because I’m all that stands between you and the Others.”

There was an audible gasp of horror from most of the old women and all of the children. 

Gendry let his steely gaze sweep over them all. “That’s my food you’re eating. That’s my men guarding your walls. When the Others come, you’ll be glad you’re under my protection.”

“Are the Others real?” a young lad’s, trembling voice asked.

Gendry was in no mood to soften the blow, “Yes.” 

The boy’s face turned ashen and somewhere a child started to wail. “The Night’s Watch have had no more men and no more supplies, since the start of winter. Even the Black Brothers can’t hold the Wall like that. If they’re not relieved soon, you’d better hope your Old Gods are listening to your prayers.”

Apart from the crying child, the kitchen was deathly silent. Gendry looked around at all the lowered heads. Not one of the old women, including the one hunched before him would meet his gaze now.

“You were all in the Godswood. You heard your Heart Tree welcome me and you heard Lady Stark take me as her Lord. We were wed before the Old Gods. Do you doubt your Lady would honour her vow? He demanded angrily, his voice echoing around the cavernous kitchen.

Most of the old women shook their heads, but not the one below him. Gendry gripped the edge of the table on either side of widow Cassel, forcing her to look at him, their faces only inches apart and his nostrils filled with her bitter stench.

“Your Lady swore before the Gods to accept me as her Lord. Do you deny it?”

He waited for some kind of response. Eventually the old crone gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“If you disrespect me again or dare to suggest that my wife would break her oath, then the cage awaits. Do you understand me?”

A nod, but Gendry wanted everyone to hear her say it. He repeated more forcefully, “Do you understand me?”

There was a pause while his steely gaze bore into those old eyes. Eventually she blinked and looked away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes my Lord.”

Widow Cassel sounded as if she was about to choke on the words, but Gendry had heard enough.

Without another word, Lord Stark turned on his heel and left the kitchen; his appetite gone and his mood much blacker than when he’d arrived. 

 

Out in the courtyard, the snow had stopped but the sky was leaden. Carts, their horses and drivers still coated with snow, were still arriving, though far fewer and less enthusiastic hands greeted them today.

Gendry made his way to the southern gate. He needed to speak to Tyrion, only now it wouldn’t be about his wedding night, now Gendry needed advice about winning over Winterfell’s small folk. Commanding men was one thing, dealing with stubborn old crones quite another. 

Although he’d threatened to lock widow Cassel in a cage and hang her from Winterfell’s walls, Gendry already knew he couldn’t. The threat had been rash and he’d left himself in a dangerous position. If the old crone continued to defy him, he’d have to make good on his promise or look weak. But an old woman locked in a cage in this weather would be dead almost immediately. Then he’d lose whatever goodwill he’d gained in Winterfell and those opposed to him would have a martyr on their hands. Fuck. Gendry had known there was much more to being a lord than feeding the smallfolk and defending his castle, but he’d hoped to have a least one full day without more problems. 

The guards directed him to a room cut into the stone wall at one side of the gate. Even from a distance he recognised Ser Peake’s laughter, louder and heartier than the rest.

Gendry had to dip his head to get into the room and only managed to step inside as the space was small and crammed with men. Ser Peake was holding court at the centre. All laughter stopped immediately Gendry entered and all faces turned towards him. As the hairs rose on the back of his neck, Gendry realised he had been the source of the hilarity. A quick scan of the room confirmed it was crammed with Peake’s favoured knights and associates. With a sinking feeling, Gendry recognised the man who he had interrupted fucking on the stairs last night.

Peake greeted him with a hasty “Ser!” accompanied by a snigger from someone further back. There were too many bodies in the way for Gendry to see who the culprit was.

“You’ll notice Ser Peake greets you as ‘Ser’ and not ‘My Lord’,” Tyrion pointed out from somewhere. Gendry couldn’t see the dwarf until he followed Peake’s furious gaze and spied Tyrion sitting cross-legged on a barrel in the furthest corner of the room.

“What Peake is implying from that greeting is that he doesn’t consider you’ve earned the title ‘Lord’ yet. That was what Ser Velaryon found so funny.”

All eyes in the room turned to Corlys Velaryon, a younger son of that once great House. Corlys had been named after his illustrious ancestor the Lord of the Tides, also know as the Sea Snake, although this Corlys Velaryon was rapidly turning as green as a grass snake.

“Good to know,” Gendry said through gritted teeth. Ser Velaryon’s card was marked.

The other men in the room seemed to shrink back against the walls, wishing to leave but unable to disappear because Gendry blocked the only exit. No one stood between Gendry and Ser Peake now and when Gendry turned his gaze on the Dornishman, Peake had no option but to explain himself.

“The terms of our Queen’s gift were clear. You had to wed Lady Stark and you haven’t,” Peake said bluntly, “Not in the eyes of the law.”

“You were in the Godswood,” Gendry said calmly. Although it was a struggle to maintain his composure, he had to. Peake was Daenerys’ man and beating the fucker to a pulp, no matter how much satisfaction it would give Gendry, would enrage Daenerys and she was not a woman he wanted to cross – particularly not when Winterfell was still reliant on supplies from King’s Landing. 

“Aye, I was in the Godswood,” Peake smirked, “And I heard Lady Stark call you a liar and claim you had tricked her into the marriage.”

Peake had heard all that? Seven buggering hells. Gendry’s blood felt like it was boiling and his hands were fisted so tightly he was sure his nails were drawing blood from his palms.

“We have history, Lady Arya and I,” Gendry said, as if what Peake had overheard meant nothing. “No matter what my wife said, we were wed before the Old Gods and you’ll find that is acceptable to our Queen.” 

“Oh, it’s not the wedding I’m questioning,” Peake said smugly, his expression predatory, “I’m not a fool, Ser. I can’t deny the wedding took place. However . . .” 

Peake paused for effect, letting the anticipation in the room build,

“. . .there was no bedding . . .”

Mumbles of agreement rumbled around the room, while Gendry fumed silently,

“. . .and no bloodied sheet to evidence the consummation.”

Several of Peake’s cronies muttered “Aye,” or “Hear, hear,” only to fall silent as Gendry fixed them with his ice cold stare. But Peake himself was not to be intimidated.

“Instead we have a chambermaid who swears Lady Arya went to her bed alone and barred the door against you. We also have Ser Roxton here,” Peake nodded to the man Gendry had seen on the stairs, “. . . who swears he saw you hours later, wandering around Winterfell on your own. Do you deny it?”

Gendry folded his arms across his chest, pretended to think about it, “I recall seeing a bare arse on a stairwell. Whether it belonged to Ser Roxton or not, I couldn’t say. If Ser Roxton wants to drop his britches and bend over, I’ll check.” 

The Ser Roxton spluttered while Tyrion guffawed. 

Peake spoke over them both, “As Lord Lannister knows only too well, an unconsummated marriage can easily be annulled . . .” 

Tyrion stopped laughing, his face falling as Peake smirked, “. . . leaving you with nothing Ser.”

Gendry waited silently until Peake finished, letting the man dig himself into a hole even Daenerys would struggle to get him out of. Only then did Gendry meet Peake’s triumphant grin with a sly one of his own.

“You tell a good tale Peake. I’m sure Daenerys will enjoy hearing it when I send you back to King’s Landing.”

Peake’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled with contempt, “You know the Queen relies upon me . . .”

“. . . to tell her amusing stories,” Gendry cut in before Peake could finish, “But I’m not so easily amused and, despite your fanciful claims, I am Lord here.”

Peake’s shrug and quizzically raised eyebrow mocked Gendry without the need for words. First old woman Cassel and now Peake. Gendry had to end this doubt upon his Lordship now before it took root. There was one, easy way to prove Peake wrong.

“Assemble everyone in the central courtyard,” Gendry snapped, “and you’ll get your proof to take back to Daenerys.”

Turning on his heel, he stomped out into the snow. Tyrion’s yelled at him to stop halted him half way across the courtyard. Gendry had to wait a long time for Tyrion’s stunted legs to catch up, during which time his mood didn’t improve any. He already knew what Tyrion was going to say and hearing ‘I told you so,’ wasn’t going to help. However, Tyrion surprised him, as usual.

Falling to his knees in the snow, his hands clasped together, Tyrion beseeched him, “Please tell me you did it and please, please, please tell me you listened to me.” 

Gendry kept his face stony as he confirmed, “Yes.”

“Which one?” 

“Both,” Gendry said with a grin.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Tyrion yelled, struggling to get up onto one knee. “Now help me up you lucky bastard. I need your help with Lady Meera.” 

 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was shorter than I’d hoped, but better something than nothing. Hope you’ll wait for the next one. I’ll try and not make the wait too long. 
> 
> Thank you BG – as always.


	13. The way to a woman's heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Bellatrix Lestrange and Direwolf 86 who both asked me so nicely to update. So I have. I know I’ve tried everyone’s patience long enough. However, it’s only half the intended length as I’m not happy with the second half yet. As you shall see, the next part is going to be pivotal and it means I’m leaving you on a bit of a cliff hanger here. Again. 
> 
> Hopefully, hopefully the next half will be ready by Friday - provided the Mighty BG isn’t too much of a busy boy this week! He didn’t just help with the direction of this chapter he picked up on more than a few errors. It wouldn’t be as good, or as much fun without him.

“Right! That’s enough,” Tyrion panted, fisting his hands on his hips and doubling over, “You need to slow down. I can’t talk and trot along beside you at the same time.”

“So stop talking,” Gendry shot back over his shoulder, keeping walking.

“What’s the fucking hurry anyway?” Tyrion yelled across the courtyard. 

Gendry stopped and forced himself to draw in a deep, calming breath. Then he turned around, stomped back the half a dozen paces to Tyrion and hissed, “Why don’t you shout a bit fucking louder so Peake can hear you?”

“Walk slower and I won’t have to fucking shout, you fucking giant.” 

Gendry threw his hands up in exasperation. 

“And don’t even think about carrying me!” Tyrion warned, retreating a few steps as Gendry bent into a crouch, “I don’t want Peake seeing that.”

This time Gendry not only threw his hands up, but paced impatiently around Tyrion. 

“Walking in circles isn’t going to get you there any faster,” Tyrion muttered, setting off at a much more reasonable pace.

Gendry cursed under his breath, stopping in his tracks as he caught sight of Peake’s men filing out of the Guardhouse.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he swore softly. Peake certainly wasn’t wasting any time, but Gendry’s attention was torn from the Guardhouse by cursing and swearing behind him. As Gendry turned, he saw a man drag a struggling woman out into the courtyard by her hair. Gendry didn’t like what he saw or what he heard and it got worse as the man repeatedly shoved the woman’s face into the snow. Gendry bellowed an order to stop across the yard, but it made no difference; the man was too blinded by his rage to hear.

The woman’s screams became more frantic and her struggles more desperate as Gendry ran across the courtyard. He was only half way there when the crying woman was jerked up by her hair and smacked in the face. 

Her screams echoed around the courtyard as Gendry ploughed into the man, taking him to the ground and pummelling his face. Gendry didn’t stop, even when he heard the satisfying sound of the man’s nose break and saw blood spray scarlet across the snow. He didn’t stop until he was pulled off. Only then, looking down at the battered and bloodied face did he realise that the man he’d just beaten was one of his own – Steerpike, a lowborn lad who had shown promise. Until now. Seven fucking hells could this day get any worse? First widow Cassel, then Peake and now Steerpike - all three of them defying him in the same bloody morning.

Speaking of Peake – when Gendry wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes, the damn man was standing there, watching it all with barely contained glee.

Peake toed the barely conscious Steerpike with his boot. “Glad he’s not one of mine, but all the same, shouldn’t you have asked for an explanation first?” 

“No explanation would justify what I saw,” Gendry snapped, spitting in the snow near Peake’s boots, trying to rid himself of the metallic taste of Steerpike’s blood.

Steerpike groaned and stirred, sitting up and gurgling through the blood in his mouth, “What did I do to deserve that? She’s a whore. Fucked ‘em all last night and wouldn’t do me this ‘morn!”

“He tried to rape me!” The woman cried, launching herself at Steerpike, only to find herself restrained by the same strong arms that had recently held Gendry back.

It took every ounce of self control Gendry had not to finish what he started. He wanted to beat Steerpike senseless and then start on Peake for good measure. Instead he addressed the crowd of men and women who had gathered around.

“I gave my word to Lady Arya there would be no raping . . .”

“You’re going to believe her before one of your own men?” Peake interrupted, looking scornfully down at the bloodied woman. She screamed again, but in rage and frustration this time, fighting like a wildling against the arms that held her.

Gendry gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to Peake’s bait and have another public confrontation this morning. Fuck Peake and his schemes. His time would come soon enough. Gendry didn’t need to question Steerpike; he’d seen enough and it was time to show his men that this type of behaviour would not be tolerated. 

“I gave my word that we would treat every occupant of Winterfell with respect.” Gendry glared at Steerpike. “Was that respect?” he demanded furiously.

At least Steerpike had the sense to hang his head in shame. However Peake had been handed another opportunity to undermine Gendry’s authority and he intended to make the most of it.

“Men’s blood rises after great victories such as the winning of Winterfell,” Peake said, addressing the crowd, “We all know that. The victors deserve the spoils of war.” As some men in the crowd cheered their approval, Peake gave the restrained woman a slow, lecherous grin.

Gendry ground his teeth and some of the braver women hissed in protest. Gendry was unable to deny Peake’s claim of a ‘great victory’ without diminishing himself. They both knew that Winterfell had been taken by stealth and intrigue and there was no ‘great victory’ such as would fire a man’s blood to boiling. Even if there had been a battle, nothing would justify what Gendry had just seen. Meanwhile, the trust he had tried to build between Winterfell and the Targaryen army balanced on a knife’s edge. One wrong move and he could lose the respect of his men or Winterfell’s women. Or both. 

“I gave My Lady my word and you were all well warned,” Gendry said icily, looking around at the assembled men and Peake, daring any of them to deny it.

None of them did, although Peake continued to smirk.

“Lift Steerpike, strip him to the waist and tie him to a post,” Gendry ordered, noting with relief that there was no hesitation in his being obeyed. “And bring me a whip.”

While Gendry would rather not have had to discipline one of his own men, Steerpike had left him with no choice. A swift and decisive response was necessary, particularly in front of Peake and his cronies.

The courtyard fell eerily silent as Gendry stripped off his gloves, handing them to a solemn Tyrion before accepting the whip.

Striding to the post, Gendry looked around at everyone assembled in the courtyard. “For disobeying my orders, the punishment is ten lashes. Call them, Ser Peake.”

Gendry uncoiled the leather thong and flicked it into the air. The tip cracked loudly. All of the women and some of the men in the courtyard flinched. Flexing his arm, Gendry applied the punishment while Peake counted the lashes.

Steerpike hissed and bucked with every lash, but did not cry out. At ten, he sagged against the ropes that bound him to the post. Gendry paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. An example needed to be made here and not only for insubordination. 

“And for striking a woman of Winterfell . . . ten more.”

There were shocked gasps all around. Steerpike started to plead for mercy. Gendry met Peake’s gaze with a steely, warning glare. Some of Peake’s men muttered their dissent, but while Peake’s jaw clenched and his eyes blazed with ill disguised contempt, he said nothing, even when Steerpike beseeched him to beg for leniency on his behalf.

“No mercy,” Gendry vowed. The bloodied woman snarled her approval.

“Call them!” he ordered.

Ser Peake obeyed, albeit reluctantly. This time Steerpike screamed every time Gendry’s arm rose and fell again and again. 

When Peake called “Ten,” no one moved or even seemed to breathe, until Gendry gave the order for Steerpike to be cut down.

Gendry met his men’s gazes as he coiled the whip, saying nothing. There was no need; his actions spoke much louder than any words could.

Leaning towards him, Peake said quietly, “An impressive reminder of your authority, Ser. But that still doesn’t make you Lord of Winterfell.”

Resisting the urge to unleash his authority on Peake, Gendry growled, “Didn’t I give you an order to assemble everyone?” 

“Aye,” Peake nodded, still smirking, “It’s already been such an entertaining morning and we’re not finished yet. Are we Ser?” 

Gendry curled his lip, turned around and walked away. Tyrion hurried to follow.

When Gendry didn’t head towards Arya’s room, Tyrion had to ask, “Where are you going?” 

“The kitchens.”

“Do you think that’s wise? Should you not go straight to Arya, display the sheet and prove Peake wrong? That fucker needs to be taught a lesson.” 

Before Gendry could reply, he heard Peake shout to the guards on the walls to call the assembly.

“He’ll get his. First the kitchens, then Arya.”

“But we don’t have to time for you to indulge your appetite!” Tyrion hissed, fearing Gendry had taken leave of his senses.

“I’m not hungry, but Arya will be and I need her to be . . . co-operative when I ask her to waive our fucking bed sheet up there.”

They both looked up at Winterfell’s only balcony with its closed doors, behind which Arya presumably still slept. 

Everywhere men were answering the trumpet’s call, stumbling out into the courtyard, blinking. Shortly the place would be full and Peake would make sure everyone was expecting to see the bloodied sheet. Gendry picked up his pace again. He had to get to Arya.

“You don’t think she’ll do it?” Tyrion asked, looking as concerned as Gendry felt.

“I wouldn’t wager my horse on it, put it that way,” Gendry muttered darkly, imagining Arya’s horror when he asked her to parade her bed sheet in front of a packed courtyard. “You saw her reaction to the calls for the bedding last night. I doubt she’d going to like this any better.”

Gendry rubbed his hand over his face, wishing he could be sure of Arya’s support, but one night in each other’s arms, even if it was the best night of both their lives, didn’t mean Arya had changed her mind on everything else. Would she still claim she’d been tricked into the marriage? Was she prepared to work with him rather than against him? Would she agree to display the evidence he needed to prove his right to be Lord of Winterfell? Or would she laugh in his bastard face in front of Peake and his own men. That was his greatest fear. 

“Surely when you tell her how much is a stake she’ll agree? Your Lordship could be in jeopardy if you can’t prove you’ve consummated the marriage.”

“What do you think would suit Lady Arya best? My being Lord of Winterfell or Daenerys dragging my arse back to King’s Landing and annulling my marriage like she annulled yours?”

A list of worrying possibilities raced through Gendry’s mind; perhaps Arya had burnt the bed sheet already, perhaps she’d stand up on that balcony and deny his claim, reducing him to a nameless bastard once again. Gods, he could lose it all and her. What if he’d got a babe on her? Now that would prove everything. But in nine moons time. Would Peake wait that long? What about the Wall? What about his heart? Could it survive Arya denying him? 

Seven buggering hells, he was going round in circles. If only he was as confident of her reaction to this as he was about her reaction to his kisses, but they’d hardly talked last night; his mouth had been much too busy elsewhere to waste time talking. Making her whimper and moan and scream his name had seemed much more important last night, in the dark. But out here, in the cold, harsh light of day, he regretted being so single minded. Well, not entirely. How could he regret the most wonderful night of his life? But he wished that, amongst her ecstatic moans, he’d heard her acknowledge him as her husband in every way first. 

“I don’t know what she’ll do,” Gendry answered honestly, raking his hand through his sweat soaked hair, “What do you think?” 

“Hmmm. I think I’m not really the best person to be giving you advice on Stark women.”

“Oh fuuuuck!” Gendry threw his hands up in the air. Again. “Now you tell me that.”

Tyrion grimaced, remembering his own failures with Lady Sansa Stark. He suspected what Gendry already knew - persuading Lady Arya Stark to do anything she didn’t want to, no matter how good the reason, was not going to be easy. “I see why you need the breakfast. Better make it a good one.”

“Very bloody helpful.”

“It might not be as bad as you think. If you pleased her last night, she’ll be predisposed towards you this morning.”

Gendry snorted, “Whatever the fuck that means.”

“You did satisfy her didn’t you?”

Gendry stopped dead to glare down at Tyrion, “What do you think?”

Tyrion glared back. “I think I wanted your help with wooing Lady Meera and here we are, still talking about your bloody cock.”

Gendry almost smiled at Tyrion’s unwitting truth. He thanked the Gods that he did have a bloody sheet to display. After she’d knocked him out cold on the stair, Gendry had thought it was more likely his blood would be smeared on the sheets come the morning, than Arya’s. 

By now they were almost at the kitchens and Gendry supposed he’d better try and help Tyrion, despite ‘wooing’ not being his area of expertise. Far from it. Arya was the only woman he’d ever wanted to ‘woo’ and he wasn’t exactly proud of hiding behind his helmet. Still, he had to tell Tyrion something. Heaving a big sigh he offered, “Just be yourself.”

“That’s all you’ve got?” Tyrion said sarcastically, “That’s worked well for me in the past hasn’t it? Out of the thousands of women I’ve fucked as myself, there’s only been one who loved me rather than my gold. One Gendry. One. In my whole fucking life.”

Gendry knew that – the one woman his friend had loved and lost. “The only one you never paid.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Tyrion rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fists and his jaw. Eventually he managed to reply through gritted teeth,

“Oh, I paid her Gendry. I paid her with Lannister gold after I’d . . . after I’d . . .” 

Tyrion hung his head, unable to finish. For once, Tyrion Lannister had no words left. 

Gendry looked away, an uncomfortable witness to his friend’s pain. He hadn’t intended to re-open old wounds. He was no use at this, but he owed it to Tyrion to try harder. “What I meant was – Meera isn’t like your usual women. She’s smart – like you.”

Tyrion heaved a painful sigh. “She’s not like me; she’s kind and brave, thoughtful and loyal . . .”

All words Gendry could have used to describe Tyrion. He stifled a smile.

“. . . and so pretty.”

All right, he wouldn’t have used ‘pretty’ to describe Tyrion, but everything else Tyrion liked about Meera could be applied to them both. 

“So you’re not as pretty as Lady Meera . . .”

Tyrion looked up sharply, giving Gendry a withering look that made him feel as stupid as he probably sounded. 

Trying again, Gendry said, “But you’re everything else you like about her and she’s smart enough to want more than a pretty face.”

Tyrion glared at him.

Feeling useless, Gendry muttered, “Just be yourself.” 

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve never had to convince a woman to look beyond what she sees in front of her.”

Hadn’t he? Gendry thought of Arya, younger than him and dressed in the same rags, dismissively telling him he could Smith for her brother. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. Tyrion had asked for his help, not his fucking life story. Thankfully there were nearly in the kitchen and Gendry could escape this. While he wanted to help, he had too many of his own problems without adding someone else’s. Still, Tyrion had always tried to help him, so Gendry offered the best advice he could.

“The way to Lady Meera’s heart is surely through her head. Woo her mind and you’ll win the rest of her.”

“So how do I do that?” 

Gendry shrugged, “You’re the genius, not me.”

“Lord Tyrion!” Hot Pie yelled as they walked into the kitchen. “Come to drink me dry again?”

“I hadn’t planned to, but seeing as I’m here . . .” Tyrion sighed, sitting down beside the fire. “What have you got?”

“Arbour wine, Tyroshi brandy, King’s Landing ale, fermented mare’s milk . . .”

“Give him watered ale.” Gendry snapped, pacing up and down. He had no time for this.

Tyrion rolled his eyes and Hot Pie shooed a child away to carry out the order before turning his attention to Gendry. The cook’s mouth fell open as he finally noticed the blood splattering Gendry’s face and boiled leather.

“What in seven hells ‘appened to you since you were ‘ere last?”

“Peake and some stupid shit happened, but never mind that. I need another breakfast.” 

“If you’d eaten the first one, you wouldn’t be hungry now would you?” Hot Pie scolded. He hated his cooking being wasted.

“Not for me. For Arya. Something sweet but don’t put any fucking brandy in it this time.”

“Brandy?” Tyrion’s interest was piqued. “Why don’t I get Brandy in my breakfast?” 

Hot Pie moved surprising quickly for such a fat man. Wielding his wooden spoon like a sword, he lunged, bouncing it off the top of Tyrion’s head. 

“Because you Milord, need to be sober for at least part o’ the day.”

Tyrion yelped. Hot Pie laughed, pointing his spoon at Tyrion as if it was a Braavosi blade.

“If you weren’t sober sometimes, you wouldn’t know ‘ow much better ‘tis being drunk.”

“Good point,” Tyrion moaned, rubbing his head. Then the two of them burst out laughing.

“My breakfast?!” Gendry growled, growing increasingly impatient. 

“Nothing for you until you’ve washed your face an’ hands,” Hot Pie snapped, pointing his spoon towards the stone sink in the corner. 

Tyrion sniggered. Gendry wasn’t sure if Hot Pie’s order was a jape or not. He wouldn’t have thought Hot Pie smart enough for that, but Tyrion Lannister was a bad influence. However, apart from some children, the kitchen was empty and he was splattered with Steerpike’s blood, so Gendry let it pass. 

While Gendry stomped off to stick his head under the faucet, Tyrion’s ale arrived and Hot Pie set to work. 

Tyrion took a long draw from his tankard, smacked his lips appreciatively and, clutching his ale to his chest, wandered over to watch Hot Pie work. 

Nodding back towards Gendry, Tyrion said, “I asked our ugly friend over there for some advice on wooing. He was useless. I hope you can do better.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Hot Pie said confidently, without bothering to look up from his cooking pan to see Gendry’s reaction. 

Towelling off his face and hair, Gendry glared at them both. When had Tyrion and Hot Pie become so friendly and when had he become the ‘ugly friend’? And, more importantly, since when had Hot Pie known about anything about women? 

“The way to any woman’s heart is though her stomach,” Hot Pie declared authoritatively. 

Gendry rolled his eyes, before catching himself and cursing under his breath instead. Wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to do? Sweeten Arya up?

“But you need to be careful with ‘em. Feed ‘em too much and they’ll leave you, sure as eggs is eggs.” 

When Tyrion expressed his surprise, Hot Pie explained morosely, “At first she won’t be able to get enough o’ you, but then she’ll go and blame you when she gets all nice and fat. Then she’ll leave you.”

Hot Pie stopped stirring to stare off into the distance. He was obviously speaking from experience. Gendry and Tyrion both made sympathetic noises. Gendry imagined Arya fat as a turnip, knowing she’d hate that. He swiftly realised that was a ridiculous daydream. Arya loved sword play too much to let food get in the way, even food as good as Hot Pie’s. Gendry cursed himself for a fool, standing here agreeing with advice from a man who thought wearing armour made a man a knight and who had once declared two men fighting to be a battle. Unless it was advice on cooking, Hot Pie could keep it to himself. 

“I need to go,” Gendry said impatiently, stalking towards the ovens and peering over Hot Pie’s shoulder, tying to see what Hot Pie was making and how much longer it was going to take.

“It’ll be ready, when it’s ready,” Hot Pie scolded, expertly flicking his wooden spoon backwards, providing Gendry with a short, sharp reminder not to crowd the cook.

“I bet you could take half the Knights in Westeros with that weapon,” Tyrion chuckled as Gendry scowled and kneaded his throbbing shoulder.

“Aye, and I won’t let you two forget it,” Hot Pie said, spinning around with all the grace and skill of a water dancer, catching Gendry and Tyrion unawares with another lightening ‘one- two’ from his wooden spoon.

They both yelped and rubbed their smarting flesh.

“Cooks don’t get enough respect,” Hot Pie muttered as he flipped one golden pancake from the griddle onto a waiting plate, piling one on top of another until they were stacked high, “How far could you lot march on an empty stomach eh? Answer me that!”

Eyeing Hot Pie’s demon spoon warily, Gendry decided it was too dangerous to even try and answer that question. Instead he said “Perfect,” and reached for the pancakes. Another close call with the wooden spoon forced his grasping hand to make a hasty retreat.

“I’m not done yet!” Hot Pie roared. 

Reaching for a little jug, he set it lovingly on the side. “There,” Hot Pie declared proudly, handing the plate to Gendry. “If that don’t get you what you want from ‘Arry, nothin’ will.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Gendry muttered, but he doubted that even Hot Pie’s pancakes and syrup would be enough to persuade Arya to display her bed sheet to the whole of Winterfell.

“Do you really think the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach?” Tyrion asked Hot Pie as they watched Gendry go. 

Hot Pie shrugged, “Not all ‘o them, but you’ve got a good chance with this lot – been starvin’ half the winter, ‘aven’t they?”

“I suppose,” Tyrion mused, unconvinced.

“Lady Meera is it?” 

Tyrion startled, shocked that Hot Pie knew. Already.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Hot Pie chuckled, “‘Aint no other woman around ‘ere smart enough to catch your interest. Besides, any ‘o the others would just take your Lannister gold and sell you what you wanted.”

“Am I that obvious?” Tyrion muttered, hugging his mug of beer tighter to his chest. 

Hot Pie’s choking snort told him he was. 

“What you need Milord, is a nice, romantic picnic; just the two of you, a soft blanket, pork pies with a nice, thick pastry crust, a bit o’ pickle, fresh baked bread, creamy cheese and a skin o’ soft red wine. Not many women could resist that.”

Tyrion’s mouth watered, imagining Lady Meera lying on a blanket in the sun. “Sounds wonderful,” he sighed dreamily, stroking his beer, before realising how far removed from reality that daydream actually was. Then he glared up at Hot Pie, pointed out sarcastically, “Only one problem. It’s snowing outside!”

“Sometimes I wonder what’s in that big head ‘o yours,” Hot Pie said, bouncing his spoon off the top of Tyrion’s skull. “Use your bloody imagination.”

Tyrion yelped, before rubbing his head thoughtfully. Gendry’s advice had been to be himself and woo Meera’s mind, while Hot Pie suggested a picnic and imagination. Between them, the two of them might just have come up with a plan . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean?! Next one’s a doozy. I’ll be back with it as soon as I can . . .


	14. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Thank you all for hanging on in there and coming back for more, despite the loooooong delay. I haven’t been slacking, honest. I just found this chapter really, really hard to write. But after hours and hours (and hours) of work, here it is . . .

Arya saw daylight through half closed eyes, heard men’s voices shouting in the distance and later, trumpets sounding. She shut her eyes and her ears to it all. 

On any other day she would have leapt out of bed, seven hells, she wouldn’t even have been in bed at this time, but today was different. She was different.

She could tell herself it was just sex, try to convince herself that the walls she’d built to keep her secrets and her ugly soul hidden hadn’t been breached last night. But since she’d returned to Winterfell, lying to herself didn’t seem to work as well as it used to.

She’d suspected Gendry was the one man capable of breaking through her defences when he’d kissed her on the stair. She’d been scared by the strength of the memories and the longing that he’d awoken then; no doubt that was why she’d tried to end things there, before he got too close. 

By the time he’d held her and pushed inside her, it was too late. By then it seemed as if she’d been empty for so long, hollow, waiting for him to come along and fill her body and soul. Yes, she could tell herself it was just sex, but every time she tried to do so, a four letter word crept into her head. No matter how she tried to ignore it or shut it out, it was still there. Love. As if she had any idea of what that meant.

Although he was the last person she should have been thinking about, when she was trying not to think of Gendry, her mind kept wandering back to Jaqen and her last night in Braavos. He was the reason she’d returned to Winterfell; after one innocent’s death too many, Jaqen had listened to her, consoled her and she’d misread everything.

“I’m not what you’re looking for Arya,” he’d said as he gently, but firmly, pushed her away. 

In all the years she’d known him, it was the only time Jaqen had used her name. He’d even referred to himself as “I” and it was only to reject her; a hurt and humiliation that had sent her fleeing the Guild and Braavos for Winterfell, not knowing what she would find there, or even if she would be welcome. But Winterfell had needed her as much as she’d need Winterfell. Her invisible wounds had healed as she struggled to survive the winter and all the while she tried to forget every single thing that had happened since she’d left her home so long ago. Until Gendry’s arrival, Arya had even started to believe she’d succeeded; Winterfell’s very survival had been so precarious she’d had hardly any time to think about herself since the first day she’d walked back through Winterfell’s gates. 

But now, lying in bed with Gendry’s scent still on the sheets and his seed sticky between her thighs, she realised Jaqen had been right. She’d been looking for something she was never going to find in the House of Black and White. She hadn’t even known what it was she was looking for until she’d found it last night in Gendry’s arms?

If only she could stay in this room, this bed, with Gendry forever. As long as she stayed here, she could pretend everything was perfect. In this bed she could be someone else; someone who laughed and loved, someone who deserved to be happy.

Gendry made her forget all the sorrow and the loss, the weight on her shoulders and the blood on her hands. Perhaps the someone else she felt when she was with him was the Arya Stark she’d lost sight of long ago; the way she might have been if there hadn’t been a war, if she hadn’t lost her family, if there hadn’t been years wasted in Braavos. Perhaps then she would have deserved Gendry’s love. 

Arya rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. No amount of wanting could change the things that she’d done. No matter how much she wanted to be, she wasn’t that Arya Stark anymore. She wasn’t the girl Gendry though he had fallen in love with. 

Her hand stroked across her stomach and for a moment Arya let herself imagine her belly swollen and round with a babe. Gendry’s babe. 

Daring to dream about what she would never have hurt too much. Before the tears of self pity started flowing, Arya let her hand drop back onto the sheet. There would never be a babe. The Gods knew she didn’t deserve one. Every day since she had returned home, she had gone to the Godswood and prayed; for food, for spring, for peace, for forgiveness and every single day she had been met with silence. Yet the leaves had spoken to Gendry the moment he had stepped in front of the Heart Tree. He obviously deserved the Gods’ favour, while they turned away from her. For everything she had done, she didn’t deserve anything as beautiful and pure as a babe. She didn’t deserve Gendry either.

Oh Gendry claimed he wanted her, but what he really wanted was a girl who didn’t exist any more and the woman he wanted had only ever existed in his imagination. Perhaps that was why he called her Nymeria in the heat of their passion? Perhaps he knew that ‘Lady Arya Stark’ was just another mask she hid behind. How long would it be before Gendry saw behind that mask? How long before he realised all that was left of Arya Stark were broken pieces floating on a sea of blood?

Arya wanted to cling onto last night for as long as she could. So she closed her eyes, buried her head under the covers and let the darkness take her to somewhere safe, some imaginary place with Gendry, where her past couldn’t return to haunt her. Somewhere they had a future together. 

 

-o-

 

Gendry stood outside the door with the breakfast plate in his hand. Had it really only been last night he’d stood here for the first time and found the door barred against him?

He hadn’t tried it yet, but hoped it wouldn’t be barred today. Should he knock? Or should he walk straight in? He’d never shared a room with a woman before, much less his wife. Seven buggering hells, he’d never even stayed the night with a woman; he’d always left before dawn, wracked with guilt and shame that he was just like his father.

Waiting to see his wife, Gendry realised he had no idea what came next. So he stood there like an idiot, holding the plate, his heart thumping as if he was about to ride into battle.

Taking a deep breath, he decided to knock and enter. To his relief, the door wasn’t barred. The room was light and he didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t the peaceful normality he saw; a wedding dress hung over the back of a chair, their two war chests side by side against the wall and the ashes of last night’s fire in the grate. Releasing the breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, Gendry relaxed a little. Perhaps he was worrying too much, after all, he had no doubt Arya enjoyed last night as much as he had. 

His eyes trailed to the discarded wedding shift on the floor and then to the bed where long, dark hair fanned out across the pillow. She was still asleep? He stood still in the middle of the room, wondering what to do. Mercifully Arya made things easier when she stirred with a soft, whimper-like moan.

Gendry moved closer, waiving the plate towards her, hoping the aroma of Hot Pie’s pancakes wafting over the bed would wake her. It seemed to work, as Arya rolled over onto her back, blinking. 

He murmured an awkward, “Good morning.”

Arya sat up slowly and stretched like a cat. Then two things happened at once; the bedcovers slipped from her shoulders and she gasped with what was clearly discomfort bordering on pain.

Gendry was struck dumb as his eyes followed the covers down to her exposed breasts that thrust towards him as she stretched, her teats red, swollen and tender from his ravenous attention last night. Mouth shaped bruises on creamy skin told him he must have sucked too hard. He didn’t remember doing it and was torn between alarm that he’d hurt her and a fierce, animal pride that he’d marked her as his own. 

Realising she was naked, Arya snatched up the cover to hug it against her breasts. The peaks of her hard teats strained against fine linen.

“You’re staring,” she said sharply, although the accusation was accompanied by a tentative smile from under long, sleepy lashes.

He shrugged, his lips tugging up into a grin, “I like what I see.” 

Arya chewed the corner of her mouth in a way that told him she was nervous, as uncertain as he was of what happened next. He wanted to get under those covers with her and prove to her just how much all of him liked what he saw, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to attend to the business with the sheet first.

“I’m surprised you weren’t woken by the noise from the courtyard.” 

He wasn’t sure if it would have been better if she’d heard him disciplining Steerpike or not. Gendry stole a look towards the balcony. Another, larger crowd would be gathering out there right now, but with the windows closed and the curtains half drawn, he could hear nothing. He felt awkward, excited by the mere sight of his wife, but not sure how best to broach the matter of the sheet.

“I can’t believe I slept so deeply,” Arya said huskily, drawing his attention back to the bed. Her long, wild hair swung free and her teats pressed enticingly against the linen as she rolled her shoulders and arched her back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Usually I can’t sleep at all.”

He wanted to tell her there was nothing wrong, that everything had never been so right, but that would be denying the trouble he was in with widow Cassel, Peake and his own damn men. He needed to talk to her about that. The courtyard would be full soon, Peake would have seen to that; full of Daenerys’ army and Winterfell’s women, all expecting to see Arya’s blood on a sheet.

Dragging his eyes from her breasts to her face, Gendry watched, transfixed, as Arya blinked and pouted and groaned again. Her lips, like her teats, were red and swollen from his enthusiastic attentions last night. 

Gendry dragged his free hand over his mouth and chin, feeling the morning scruff rasp his palm and wondering if he’d inadvertently left the inside of her thighs as chaffed and tender as her teats and lips. As if in confirmation, Arya wriggled her hips and gave the most delicious, breathy moan; part discomfort and part needy whimper. It reminded him of everything they had done last night and sent blood pumping straight to his cock. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you?” Gendry managed to ask, through the haze of his desire.

“Hmmm, let’s just say I’ll be thinking about you every time I sit down,” she said and then giggled. It was a wonderful, most un-Arya like sound and he loved it.

With her eyes wide and blinking, her hair an unruly mess, her bee-stung lips and her breasts bearing his mark, Arya looked like every fantasy he’d ever had, come to life. He was the luckiest bastard in the whole of Westeros. This is how he wanted to remember Arya. If he fucked things up, if he lost her somehow, this moment would stay with him until the day he died, this memory of how she looked and of how much he loved her.

“You brought me breakfast?”

Gendry looked down at the plate in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He’d forgotten all about it. The way she licked her lips threatened to make him forget everything else too.

Sitting down beside her on the bed, he offered her the plate. Arya seized it with both hands. The bed covers fell, her attempts to hide her nakedness forgotten.

“How did you know I was hungry?”

“Just a wild guess.”

Arya squealed with delight when she peered inside the jug Hot Pie had sat on the plate. “I haven’t tasted this since I was a girl!”

Gendry grinned as he watched her dribble sweet maple syrup over the stack of pancakes, concentration etched on her beautiful face. 

She mumbled something unintelligible through her first mouthful, closing her eyes and rolling her head back, groaning with delight as she savoured the sweet taste and sticky texture. The noises she made were almost as enthusiastic as the ones he’d drawn from her last night. Hearing her so damn happy made him happy too. Her pleasure was his pleasure and a rush of contentment like he’d never known surged in his chest. He forced it down, he had to. The sheet. He had to get the damn sheet out on that balcony and then he intended to make her moan and scream his name so many times she’d think she’d worn it out. And then he intended to make her scream some more.

While Arya was busy devouring her breakfast, Gendry sneaked a look behind her at the exposed sheet. To his relief, there it was – the butterfly stain of her maiden’s blood.

“What are you doing?” Arya demanded through another mouthful. Damn, but she missed nothing.

“Are you not going to share?” he asked, lifting the little jug, intent on distracting her until she’d finished eating and he’d decided how best to bring up the subject of the sheet. 

She shook her head and licked her lips, savouring every last morsel.

Gendry poked his index finger into the jug and swept it around the bowl until the tip was coated in golden syrup. He hadn’t even managed to get it half way to his mouth when strong, slim fingers caught his wrist.

“Oh no you don’t. That’s mine.”

Before he could protest, Arya had tugged his hand forwards and sucked his index finger into her mouth. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she wrapped her tongue around the whole length of his finger, hollowed her cheeks and sucked. They both moaned at the same time.

As he watched her lavish attention on his finger, the sheet was forgotten. Watching her was so damn erotic that all Gendry could think of was another part of him sliding in and out between those plump, red lips. They’d stopped before he’d spilled his seed in her mouth last night. Twice. This morning she was obviously sore down there but, providing she’d let him, he had no intention of stopping a third time. He’d return the favour of course. With interest. But not yet, although he was having trouble remembering why not. 

Maybe she read his mind as, through the haze of desire, he was suddenly aware of her other hand stroking the laces of his britches where his cock strained for release. 

Gendry had to grit his teeth to stop himself from ripping the laces open himself, tangling his fingers in her wild hair and encouraging her mouth down to where he really wanted it. 

Instead he settled for a gasped, “That feels so good.” 

She grinned around his finger and rubbed her hand more firmly over his laces, drawing a lusty, rasped groan from him.

Fuck, but she was so good at this. Would it be selfish to let her suck him off and then tell her why he was here? Fuck, he was a selfish bastard for even thinking about it, but by the Gods, it wouldn’t take long. Not long at all.

But to his frustration, Arya releasing his finger with a loud, wet ‘pop’, before whispering huskily, “No one takes what’s mine and this sweet finger is . . .” she flicked her tongue over the tip, “. . . mine.”

Gripping his wrist tighter, holding his hand to her mouth, she bobbed her head forwards and back, sucking, licking, teasing, all the while holding his gaze with heavily lidded eyes. 

If he didn’t stop her now, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he had to stop. Gendry thought of Peake waiting for him out there in the courtyard and his desire was doused as effectively as if Peake had dumped a bucket of ice water down his britches. 

“Arya,” he rasped, extracting his finger from her mouth with another loud ‘pop’, “Stop. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Again? Arya looked up at him, thwarted, frustrated and more than a little annoyed. Why did he keep stopping her? Wasn’t she good enough at this? Every time she anticipated him coming in her mouth he told her to stop. She wanted to taste him, to show him how special he was, how much more he meant to her than all the others.

Giving him a wicked pout that she knew from experience men liked, she asked, “Why wait?”

Gendry extracted his wrist from her hand, steeling himself for their discussion; at least he hoped it was going to be a discussion and not a fight. “Because I need to talk to you about the sheet.”

With dismay, Arya realised that, while she was still clinging onto the dream of last night, Gendry had already moved on. He was planning the next move in his claiming of Winterfell and it involved displaying the sheet they were both sitting on. He was making it perfectly clear that the sheet was more important than she was. She gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white and it was all she could do to stop herself stabbing his big, stupid thigh with it. 

Surely she couldn’t have been so wrong? Surely last night hadn’t been just another part of his plan? Claim her. Claim Winterfell. Was that really all she was to him? Part of his plan? Did all the loving words he’d whispered in the dark mean nothing to him? He stomach dropped like a stone in a pool. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.

Keep her voice steady took a great deal of effort, but she did it and asked, “Is that what you were looking at earlier?” Although she already knew the answer.

Gendry nodded guiltily and turned to look behind her, at the stain in the centre of the sheet. 

She frowned. Did he really think she was so blinded by love or lust that she hadn’t noticed the self-satisfied expression that flickered across his face when he’d first seen her maiden’s blood? So he wanted the sheet, but she had no intention of making this easy for him. She followed his gaze, turning to look at the bloody stain too. “Don’t worry. If it won’t wash out, I’ll burn it,” she murmured apologetically.

Gendry almost laughed. Arya might have been a Faceless Assassin, but in some ways, she was still so naive. As if he would let her wash or burn their wedding sheet. Adopting a soothing tone he began, “I know you didn’t want to go through with the bedding last night . . .”

“It’s degrading,” she interrupted vehemently and she meant it. That wasn’t part of any act. Her distain for the ritual was just as strong this morning as it had been last night; stronger even, now she knew Gendry was more interested in the sheet than in her. “I’m not some object to be stripped and displayed.” Like that sheet - she might have added, but she didn’t.

For all Gendry that shared her revulsion at the bedding ritual, it was a tradition; one that reached as far back as the First Men and trying to break with tradition caused seven hells of a lot of problems – as he was finding out. He ran his hands through his hair, taking his time to try and find the right words for this, words that would get him what he wanted; what he needed. “I’m glad I was able to save you from that.”

She cocked one sceptical eyebrow at him, as if she disagreed with his assessment of the situation, as if she could have saved herself. 

A little wave of annoyance rippled through him. Didn’t Arya realise that, if he hadn’t given the order there was to be no bedding, even a Faceless Assassin couldn’t have stopped it? There was an army of men in the hall last night, all wanting to see a beautiful maiden stripped naked, all wanting to leer and grab, every one of them imagining what it would be like to bed her first. But she was his. 

The same possessiveness that gripped him last night consumed him again. He hadn’t done it only for her. He was a selfish bastard; she was his and he wanted every other fucker to know that Lady Arya Stark in all her naked glory was for his eyes only. He wanted Peake and every other cunt in Winterfell to see that damn sheet and know she was his. Gods help him; he’d kill any man who said otherwise.

Gendry gritted his teeth and drew in a deep breath. Now came the hard part and he wasn’t meaning his cock. That had been hard since he’d walked into the room and found her still in bed. Now came the conversation he had been dreading all morning.

“While you were sleeping, I ran into some . . . problems.”

“Really?” she said warily, jabbing her fork into what was left of Hot Pie’s pancakes.

“Do you remember Ser Peake?”

Arya’s lip curled disdainfully, “The old man who criticized my defences? My guards? The shit who criticized me?”

The very one. Gendry shifted uncomfortably, “He’s Daenerys’ man.”

Arya’s jaw twitched as she put her fork back down on the plate, concentrating intently on it. “So you said.”

“Peake . . . ah . . . pointed out to me that unless I can prove the marriage has been consummated, it could be annulled.” Gendry said quickly, thinking of Tyrion’s humiliation and how much he wanted to avoid that himself.

Arya decided then and there Ser Peake was overdue to meet his Gods – whichever ones he preferred. She’d happily solve Gendry’s problem tonight and no one would ever know, most importantly Gendry. It would be a tragic accident. Perhaps Peake would be crushed by some crumbling Winterfell stone. Arya liked that idea; it had a poetic justice to it. Ser Peake didn’t realise who he was dealing with and, mercifully neither did Gendry. Arya intended to keep it that way for as long as possible; forever if she could. 

Now he’d said it, Gendry waited anxiously for Arya’s reaction. He had expected her to rant or swear or something. Instead all he got was a disinterested shrug.

Ser Peake wouldn’t live to see another sun rise, but Gendry didn’t know that. Feigning indifference, Arya said, “Surely Peake isn’t fool enough to suggest a Stark would break an oath sworn before the Heart Tree?” 

Gendry didn’t want to have to answer that. He knew Peake would do anything to see him land on his bastard arse over this, including calling Arya a liar – perhaps not to her face, but certainly behind her back. But if Gendry admitted that, what would Arya do? 

He couldn’t help but remember the men who had crossed Arya in Harrenhal and their strange, unexplained deaths. He didn’t like Peake, but Arya killing him in cold blood didn’t sit well with him. That wasn’t the Brotherhood’s way. Even though Beric was long dead and the Brotherhood scattered, Gendry still lived by the oath he’d sworn long ago. Apart from his honour, what if Daenerys found out? Now that didn’t bear thinking about. 

He leaned forwards on his thighs and continued in a less confrontational tone, “It’s not only Peake who is questioning my authority here. I’ve had words with that old crone Cassel and I’ve had to whip one of my own fucking men for disobeying me.”

Tilting his head sideways, Gendry looked up at her, but she was keeping her eyes averted. So he tried harder to explain, “I need to prove my right to be here is unassailable.”

“I don’t feel the need to prove anything and neither should . . .” 

“This isn’t about you Arya!” 

She tightened her grip on the fork, needing the comfort of a weapon in her hand. How dare Gendry say this wasn’t about her! It was her blood on that sheet, not his. Stupid bull headed bastard.

His tone had been angrier, more aggressive than he’d intended but by the Gods, she wasn’t making this easy for him. “I’m the one with the problem here. I was a bastard until yesterday and that’s the way some people want me to remain.”

“So? My brother Jon is a bastard and he doesn’t have a problem controlling his men.”

Gendry stood up sharply as his anger flared. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t just sit and listen to this. He was damn sure he knew more about the challenges Jon Snow faced being a bastard and commander than Arya did. Trying not to yell at her left his jaw clenched so tight he was surprised his teeth hadn’t broken. Reigning in his anger, he gritted out, “This isn’t about your brother either. But I’d forgotten that nothing ever mattered to you except yourself and your family. Not the Brotherhood, not the smallfolk, not me.” 

Arya was incredulous and furious. Gendry commanded the biggest army in Westeros, had taken the Twins, yet the first challenge from some no-one like Peake and Gendry was prepared to humiliate her? Even if it there had been some truth in what he’d claimed – that only her family mattered to her - which there wasn’t, didn’t Gendry understand he was her family now? But instead of embracing it and acting like the Lord he claimed he wanted to be, he was wallowing in self pity. 

When she finally replied, there was cold steel in her voice and in those grey, northern eyes. “Neither of us have anything to prove to Peake or anyone else. My answer is still no. If you ever hope to be worthy of the name Stark, you’d better learn how to act like one. My father wouldn’t have pandered to an old woman or a man sent to spy on us. If you want to be Lord of Winterfell, neither should you.”

She was holding her father up as an example? Perhaps if Eddard Stark had paid more attention to the people who spied on him, he wouldn’t have lost his head. 

“You go too far Arya!” Gendry yelled, his pride smarting from the insults she’d hurled. 

The intensity of his reaction and the hurt in his eyes made her wince, but she reminded herself it was Gendry who had started this. If he’d just have come back to bed or dealt with Peake properly in the first place, the damn sheet would never have been an issue. 

Gendry might have started this but she was determined to finish it. “If you can’t take care of Peake, I will. Forget him. He’s no one and he won’t bother you again.”

Gendry’s fury was cold and hard. She’d claimed he couldn’t control his own men, that her brother was a better commander, that her father was a better man and that he wasn’t worthy of her name. The final straw was her claiming she could deal with Peake when he couldn’t. She was taunting him; she thought he didn’t know about the Faceless Men. Well now was the perfect time to discuss what she’d really been doing in Braavos.

He turned on her, placing a fist on the bed on either side of her, so their faces were only inches apart. Unleashing all his frustrations and insecurities he demanded, “Tell me how you plan to take care of Peake for me?” 

She tilted her chin up defiantly, her gaze never wavering from his, “The less you know about it the better. Just trust me.”

“Trust you?” he snarled. “Why should I trust you when all you’ve done is lie to me?”

“I haven’t . . .”

“You’re lying to me again! Fuck this Arya. Tell me the truth about Braavos.”

Gendry saw surprise flicker briefly behind Arya’s eyes, only for it to be swiftly replaced by her usual steely determination.

“I’ve already told you . . .”

“Fuck your lies about Mummers Troupes!” he spat, “I want the truth this time. I want you to tell me about the Faceless Men.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly, her face a stony mask and how damn appropriate was that? If Arya wanted to play games, she’d soon learn that she was playing with the King of Determination. 

“Alright,” he said, giving her a triumphant smirk, “If you don’t want to talk about the Faceless Men, tell me about Jaqen H’ghar.”

Gendry watched with satisfaction as Arya froze, her eyes wide with shock. Finally a reaction. She looked panicked and that only proved to Gendry that sly, Lorathi fuck meant something to her. A selfish, green-eyed dragon uncoiled low in his belly, spitting the words ‘Braavos’ , ‘Faceless Men’ and, worst of all, ‘Jaqen H’ghar’. 

“And don’t pretend you know nothing about him. He killed those men in Harrenhal for you. Didn’t he?”

Arya dropped her eyes to the plate in her lap, her heart racing, her mind desperately trying to find an explanation Gendry might believe. She felt like a wolf caught in hunter’s trap. She wanted to howl with frustration and loss. 

Calm as still water, she told herself, but her mind refused to obey. How did Gendry know? How? And what did she do now? What could she say? She couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not ever. 

Gendry watched her withdraw deeper into herself and further away from him. Why couldn’t she just tell him the damn truth? He took her chin between his fingers and pulled her face back up sharply so she had to look at him.

“Was he the reason you went to Braavos? No doubt you know he’s in King’s Landing whispering in Daenerys’ ear right now.” 

Arya’s face was pale, her expression haunted and her hands fisted in the sheets at her side. Still she said nothing, which only fanned the flames of his jealousy. Fuck Jaqen H’ghar. Arya was his. Overcome with the need to remind her of it, Gendry leaned down and pressed his mouth hard against hers, but her lips were tight and unyielding.

Arya was frozen with panic, even Gendry’s kiss, dark and intense as it was, couldn’t distract her. Jaqen was in the Red Keep? How long had he been there? Had he been whispering in Daenerys’ ear when she had sent Gendry north? 

Even as she asked herself that question, Arya knew the answer was yes. Jaqen had convinced Daenerys to send Gendry to Winterfell for a reason. But why? Was this Jaqen’s twisted revenge for her leaving the Guild? What did Jaqen think he could make her do? To Gendry? Arya thought she might be sick. She had to get out of here, had to think, had to plan.

She blindly shoved at Gendry’s chest, pushing him away. 

Gods but she was strong and he was forced back. Rejected. The green dragon in his gut took a deep breath and roared, spitting jealous, green fire that spewed like bile out of Gendry’s mouth.

“Was his cock the one you got all that practice on?”

Her fist connected with his face faster than he would have thought possible and it hurt. By the Gods it hurt. He’d been slapped by women before, but that had been nothing compared to this. His head rang like a bell. Through his furious, jealous rage a small, rational part of him was proud of his wife. Fuck, but she had a punch like a mule’s kick.

“You know nothing about what I did. What I had to do,” Arya hissed, her anger ice cold, compared to his now white hot rage.

He grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides and looming over her so his face was only inches from hers.

“So tell me Arya. Tell me what you had to do.”

No reply. He tightened his grip, holding her so tight he knew he’d leave bruises, not that she flinched.

“You tell me what you had to do and I’ll tell you again why I have to show that sheet.”

Her teeth were gritted, her tone icy as she spat back, “Do it then. You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.”

Gendry searched her face for something more; surely she wasn’t going to leave it like that? Surely she was going to explain herself now? But the shutters had come down and her face was expressionless; her eyes blank and cold.

He was shaking with anger, his heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to shake her. Instead he cursed her and himself as he stepped back and let her go.

As soon as she was free, Arya slipped passed him and stalked away. Gendry watched her go; her hair swinging down her back, almost touching her beautiful arse, her hips swaying as she left him standing alone by their bed. How in seven buggering hells had it come to this?

As she slammed the door to the dressing room, he turned back towards the bed and the bloodied sheet. She might have shredded his pride and almost broken his jaw, but at least he had the fucking sheet. Tugging it off the bed, he threw it over his shoulder and walked towards the balcony, only to stop dead as he caught sight of the crowd through the glass. 

People were crammed into every free inch of space; men lined the battlements, children sat high on shoulders and clung to railings at precarious angles, all waiting patiently for him to prove his right to be here, his right to be Lord of Winterfell. Any doubts Arya had put into his head where instantly dispelled. There was no other way. He had to do this.

Resting his hand on the wooden baton that held the windows tightly shut, he took a deep breath and pushed.

-o-

Arya was shaking as she rested her head against the inside of the dressing room door. Jaqen was in Westeros and Gendry knew about Jaqen. That meant Gendry knew about the Faceless men too. How did he know? And how much did he know? Had he known when he’d first arrived? When he’d taken her maidenhead? More importantly, what was he going to do about it? She’d always known Gendry would hate her when he found out. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

She had no idea how long she stood there, her thoughts in turmoil, her body shivering and sweating at the same time. When the roar came, it was so loud that it shook her out of her stupor and rattled the wooden door on its hinges. She stepped back, momentarily disoriented, trying to remember when she had last heard that sound. Her mind tumbled back in time, to events and places she had tried so hard to shut away. But it all came back to her in a terrifying rush, as the crowd began to chant “Stark! Stark!, Stark!”.

The last time she had heard a roar like that had been in King’s Landing when the mob had been baying for her father’s blood. Her head swam with the memory of it; her father on his knees, King Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, the crowd screaming obscenities and hurling rocks and her being helpless to stop any of it. But she wasn’t helpless now. She didn’t need to listen to this.

Throwing open the door, Arya was horrified to find the din made by the mob was even louder, thunderous, deafening. Her hands flew to cover her ears but it was too late; the awful memory came crashing back in on her; she was a child again, in King’s Landing, on a plinth, crouching between the feet of Baelor the Blessed. The noise and the memory hurled her back into the crowd on day her father died. Arya’s legs almost gave way under the tidal wave of grief and regret that engulfed her. She’d buried it so deep and for so long, that it’s returning now threatened to knock her to her knees. 

This was all Gendry’s fault. His arrival in Winterfell, his showing her a happiness that she didn’t deserve and couldn’t have, had ripped her carefully constructed defences apart and let these memories come flooding back in.

Until yesterday, everything about her life, including the walls around her heart, had been so hard, so cold, so inflexible. Until Gendry. He’d stirred up the past. He’d made her think about the future she might have had if Robert Baratheon hadn’t come to Winterfell. 

Gendry had given her a taste of heaven and having it ripped away was far worse than never having known it existed.

Blinking the threatening tears away, Arya reminded herself that she wasn’t that helpless little girl any more. Tears had blinded her long ago, but she wouldn’t let them now. She hurriedly scanned the room for something to cover her nakedness; not the damn wedding dress, certainly not the silk shift on the floor, the bed sheet was gone and Meera had taken all her clothes. In desperation, her gaze fell upon on Gendry’s trunk – he would have britches and shirts in there.

Through the haze of unshed tears and the overwhelming noise, Arya made her way unsteadily over to the far side of the room. Covering her ears didn’t help; the thunderous noise was too overwhelming to be ignored. At any moment she expected to hear the bells of Baelor’s Sept toll as they had that summer day long ago or feel Yoren’s hand around her arm like a wolf trap.

Arya dug around in Gendry’s trunk, trying not to listen to the crowd and almost succeeding, until she heard her own name being chanted, over and over . . .

“Arya! Arya! Arya!” 

Peake had Gendry’s men calling for her. It was far too close to her memory of the mob jeering, “Traitor, Traitor, Traitor.” 

She didn’t want to remember and she couldn’t think here. She had to get away. She had to take care of Peake and she had to protect Gendry from whatever Jaqen and the Guild were planning. But first she needed clothes. Grabbing one of Gendry’s white shirts, she pulled it over her head. 

 

-o-

 

Gendry tied two corners of the sheet to the balcony’s rusted iron railing. Amid all the uproar the thought foremost in his mind at that moment was how, someday, he would replace the railing with a better one. He’d ask Arya what style she wanted and then he’d make it for her in Winterfell’s forge. Someday when they were at peace. Gods willing, it would be someday soon.

When the sheet unfurled so that Arya’s maiden’s blood was there for all to see, the chant had started,

“Stark! Stark! Stark!”

He’d looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Arya, hoping she had decided to join him, but the window was empty. So he’d stood there, awkward and alone, listening to thousands of people scream her name. Not his name. Not yet. After everything she’d said about her father and brother, he didn’t feel he’d earned that honour yet. But he would. He’d make himself worthy of her name, even if it killed him – which it damn well might. 

He’d never expected this rapturous greeting or to see ten thousand people crammed into every nook and cranny of Winterfell’s main yard and the surrounding battlements. The volume and the enthusiasm of the initial cheer when he’d walked out onto the balcony had stunned him. He’d stood, dumbstruck, like a maiden squire at his first battle, while all around him; from near and far, from the courtyard below and the battlements above, his men and her women clapped and cheered and roared their approval. 

As he scanned the scene, Gendry saw Winterfell’s children raised high on his men’s shoulders, couples with their arms wrapped around each other and everywhere he looked, even high on the battlements, his men stood shoulder to shoulder with Winterfell’s women. If only Arya was beside him to see it.

This was what Winterfell needed; not just supplies and an army, but new life and after years of fighting all over Westeros, his men needed a home. The proof that they’d finally found it was all around him. This was what he’d fought for and would die for if he had to. He’d come North to find Arya but he’d found so much more. He could only hope that Arya would find whatever she was looking for in him. 

When the cheering showed no sign of subsiding and not knowing what else to do, he lifted his hand, waived self consciously and turned around to walk away.

That was when he heard it; one voice above all the others yelling, “Where’s your wife?!”

Gendry would have recognised that fucking Dornish accent anywhere. A few more voices took up Peake’s taunt, only to be quickly drowned out by the crowd. But to Gendry’s dismay, the chanting began to change from triumphant cries of “Stark, Stark, Stark,” to calls for “Arya, Arya, Arya.” 

Already halfway back into the room, Gendry wondered how in seven hells he was going to get himself out of this. 

Should he keep walking and ignore the crowd’s demand? That would play right into Peake’s hands. Gendry could imagine the laughter behind his back and the sly taunts to his face; where’s your wife Ser? Or even worse, bastard. The whispered doubts about whether it was Arya’s blood on the sheet. 

Peake would exploit any weakness relentlessly and endlessly until Arya eventually killed Peake and then what the fuck would Daenerys do? What would he do?

All of this; Winterfell, his Lordship, the adulation of the crowd - it all meant nothing without Arya. She was the reason he had fought and struggled for all these years, but the victory felt hollow without her by his side to share it. 

Peake might have backed him into a corner, but there was a way to come out fighting. He kept walking, back into the room to find his wife. He was a fool to have let anything come between them, most of all his misplaced jealousy. Whatever she’d given H’ghar, she’d given him more and he’d almost let her slip away, when he should have been holding on so tight. 

 

-o-

Gendry’s shirt was huge, just like him. It hung almost to her knees and to well below her fingertips. But it would have to do. Pushing the sleeves up to her elbows, Arya dug deeper into his trunk looking for britches.

The combination of having her head in a trunk, tears in her eyes, the noise of the crowd and the furs on the floor to muffle his footsteps, meant that Arya never heard Gendry approach until he was almost directly behind her. She tensed, every nerve drawn taught, every muscle coiled tight as she waited for him to make his move. She waited with her heart hammering in her chest and blood thundering in her ears. 

Was this it? He’d displayed the sheet to Peake. Gendry had got what he wanted. He’d proved he was Lord of Winterfell and no one could say otherwise, therefore she was of limited use to him now. He might think to use her as a brood mare, but after a few moons he’d find out she wasn’t even useful for that and no man would choose to have an Assassin in their bed. She had to assume if Gendry knew about Jaqen and the Guild, then he also knew about all the terrible things she’d done. He’d already guessed correctly about Harrenhal. 

Although she’d straightened up, Arya still had her back to him. She stood frozen to the spot, listening to him draw in a deep breath. She visualising him running his hands through his hair and the way it would keep falling back into his eyes. She remembered how it felt to run her fingers through it last night. The thought of losing that felt like having her insides ripped out. 

When Gendry finally spoke, his voice was thick and low and sincere, “About H’ghar. I shouldn’t have said that. I was jealous. I am jealous.”

Gendry paused, giving Arya the opportunity to offer him an easy way out. Why drag this pain out any longer than she had to? With her eyes fixed on the ancient stone wall in front of her, she told the man she loved, “I’m not what you want and I’m not what you think you see. You’ll find someone else. But I want you to know that Jaqen and I were never more than . . .” 

What? What were they? Arya trailed off, unable to explain to Gendry what she and Jaqen had been. They’d cut a bloody swathe together through Essos. Together they’d been unstoppable. She’d once thought it had been more than killing, but one night with Gendry had shown her the difference between being lonely and being loved. 

Gendry’s arm snaked around her waist and hauled her back against what felt like one of Winterfell’s warm stone walls. Although Gendry was hard as rock, there was a comfort to him that even her beloved Winterfell stone could never match. His warmth, his scent and his strength enveloped her. Arya closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax into his embrace, praying that it wasn’t for the last time. But since when had the Gods listened to her prayers? He felt so good against her; it hurt to think about losing this, about losing him.

His silky hair brushed against her cheek and his breath was warm against her ear as he leaned towards her and murmured, “I know H’ghar was never the man for you because he’s not me. You’re meant to be mine Arya Stark. You were always meant to be mine.”

Arya was thrilled and terrified by his declaration all at the same time; thrilled because Gendry knew what she was, yet he still wanted her and terrified because she’d never needed anyone before, but in that moment she realised she needed him. Through all the death and war and lies that had been her life, nothing had come close to breaking her, but she knew Gendry could. 

Unable to speak, for the lump forming in her throat, she curved her arm around his head. Being careful to avoid his jaw where she’d just hit him, Arya pulled his face down to hers. His expression was so intense, so serious and so forgiving all at once that she felt as if he could see right inside her and that he knew everything about her. The wonder of it all was that he still wanted her.

Arya had to bite the corner of her mouth as her lips began to tremble and her eyes began to shine. 

“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved,” Gendry whispered as he nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. He loved her, but he loved her most of all like this – when she let him see the vulnerability beneath the thick layers of ice.

“I think that was the first time I’ve ever even said that word aloud,” he said, forcing a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t want to see her cry. Not now. Not ever.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to hear say it,” Arya admitted softly. There was no use denying it and no point in trying to hide it as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Gendry kissed the trails of her tears before brushing his lips over hers; warm, wet and salty. As she kissed him back, he moaned into her mouth, bringing his hands up to tangle them in her hair, pulling her closer, stroking his tongue into her mouth in a slow, sensuous dance.

Arya was beginning to lose herself in the dream again when Gendry pulled away to murmur against her ear, “They’re calling your name. Come outside with me.”

“No I . . .”

He had her spun around before she could say, “. . . can’t.”

“You need to see this.”

Determination radiated off him as he took her hand in his and pulled. Taken by surprise, Arya stumbled after him as he set off towards the window. It was like being pulled behind an aurochs. She tried to haul him back, first with her one hand, then with both, but she didn’t even manage to slow his progress. 

“Just wait until you see them, thousands of them. All wanting you.”

That was supposed to encourage her? The thought of standing on that balcony terrified her. This wasn’t a stage. She wasn’t playing a part. She’d have to stand out there as Arya Stark. Wearing only Gendry’s shirt.

The balcony was getting closer with every one of his long strides, each step taking her nearer to the window and the roaring crowd. She could feel the cold air against her bare legs as the chanting grew louder and louder and faster and faster with every step;

Arya! Arya! Arya! 

Her heart hammered in time. She tried to twist out of Gendry’s grip, but he held her tight.

“I don’t want to go out there. Not dressed liked this!” she shouted at his broad back.

“You look beautiful and you deserve this.”

She deserved what? To face an angry mob of Peake and his men? A few more strides and they’d be out on the balcony. She didn’t have to do this and Gendry couldn’t make her.

“Stop!” she yelled, ready to make him if he wouldn’t. But her demand was drowned out as the chanting reached a crescendo. Her name surely couldn’t have been shouted any louder or faster. 

Arya! Arya! Arya!

Gendry stopped just short of the window and Arya sagged with relief, until he bent his head towards hers and she heard him say, “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.” 

Before she could refuse, he’d tugged her wrist and sent her past him, like a slingshot, through the open window and out onto the balcony, moving so fast she had to brace her arms against the railing to halt her progress. 

The courtyard erupted in a tremendous, ear shattering cheer. 

Arya had never heard a Dragon, but surely even one of those magical beasts couldn’t have roared any louder. The glass shook in its frame and the noise reverberated around Winterfell until Arya thought pieces of the crumbling masonry must surely shake loose. 

She had no idea how long she stood there, overawed by the reception, looking at the sea of upturned faces below. She had expected Peake and six thousand baying, sneering men, but instead she saw a sea of bright faces, of men, women and children all cheering and looking expectantly up at her. 

She only became aware of Gendry beside her when he held one hand up – asking for quiet. The sudden, absolute silence was even more unsettling than the deafening clamour. It was as if every one of the ten thousand in the courtyard held their breath. Waiting.

What Gendry did next shocked her to her core. He roared out across the expectant crowd, 

“You asked for her and here she is. The woman who held Winterfell for you through the winter. The woman I’ve loved from the moment I first laid eyes on her . . . my wife, Lady Arya Stark – the saviour of Winterfell!”

There was a final moment of silence as Arya tried to process all that Gendry had said, before the crowd erupted again. 

The saviour of Winterfell? Surely he meant himself and not her? She looked up at him with questioning eyes, but he only grinned, linked his fingers through hers and held their joined hands aloft. 

He’d said he’d loved her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. Amongst the thousands of people, only the Bull and ‘Arry knew how long ago that had been. And Hot Pie of course, if he was here. Arya doubted he’d leave his beloved kitchen, even for this. But it didn’t matter; nothing mattered except Gendry and this moment. He was beside her, his breathing coming fast and ragged, his warm, strong fingers entwined with hers as he claimed her, irrevocably before all of Winterfell. 

The crowd’s roar of approval filled her ears and everything around her but it no longer reminded her of the past. She had to face the future, had to look forwards, had to stop hiding behind masks and hiding from herself. Lady Arya Stark took a deep, steadying breath. This was something she had to do, after all Winterfell had been hers long before it was theirs. 

Mirroring what Gendry had done, Arya held her open hand aloft, calling for silence. She could hear Gendry beside her, asking why, but he would find out soon enough. 

As soon as the crowd fell silent, she used the voice lzembaro had taught her; the one that would carry to the furthest reaches of the theatre which, for this performance, was Winterfell. Despite her attire, she was solemn, regal and authoritative when she spoke, 

“Lord Stark claims I am his.”

She paused for dramatic effect, surveying her audience, holding the crowd rapt and in the palm of her hand. Izembaro would have been delighted. Gendry gave her fingers a tight squeeze of approval. 

“What he didn’t tell you was . . .

Again she paused and the crowd held its collective breath.

“What he didn’t tell you was that . . . He . . . Is . . . Mine!”

Turning swiftly around, she grabbed the front of Gendry’s tunic and pulled him forwards, crashing her lips against his. Their eyes met, locked in a connection deeper than anything she’d ever felt or had even imagined existed before. They were surrounded by thousands but nothing existed except the two of them, joined together in the eye of the storm. 

The noise the crowd had made before was nothing compared to the eruption of whooping, clapping, stamping and cheering that shook Winterfell as its Lord and Lady bound their futures together and united their people under a new House Stark.

 

Somewhere out there, lost in the jubilant throng, Ser Peake turned away in disgust and began to push his way out of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that. 
> 
> Thanks to Brazilian Guy for his always astute advice and thanks to everyone else who keeps reading, keeps asking and keeps me going. I couldn’t and wouldn’t be doing it without you.
> 
> Got to be TyMeera next (and perhaps some news from The Wall) but it will be a while. I have something in the real world that requires my attention for the next month. However, I will be back and I will finish the Reluctant Bride too. No promises when though . . .
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting and being so damn patient.
> 
> L3j

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that piqued your interest. 
> 
> Arya’s next and I’m aiming for a chapter every few days until it’s done.


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